


A Hard Case of You

by Chiyume



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bar Room Brawl, Blow Jobs, Bucky's got a mouth on him, Condoms, Dirty Talk, First Meetings, Gay Bashing, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Lawyer Bucky Barnes, M/M, Mechanic Steve Rogers, One Shot, Safer Sex, Shameless Smut, Steve knows how to shut him up, Strangers to Lovers, The boys start off on the wrong foot, Top Steve Rogers, both are dumb and silly stubborn idiots, power bottom bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 22:32:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16027328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiyume/pseuds/Chiyume
Summary: James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, seasoned lawyer at Shield Legal Services, New York City office, is in a bad mood.He’s driving down the I-90 from Buffalo in his sleek black company car, AC running on cool to keep the air from growing stuffy. He’s got his jaw set in that particular way he knows will cause him a major headache in a few hours, but right now the last thing on his mind is his own future discomfort.In which Bucky's car breaks down when he's already feeling his worst, and he's forced to seek help from whatever's nearby. Luckily, Rogers' Auto Repair isn't too far away, and everyone seems very enthusiastic about recommending the place. But when Bucky gets there, he has a hard time seeing the professional the whole town's been speaking of so fondly...





	A Hard Case of You

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired ages ago by [Shinjini](https://twitter.com/shinzz1), and I hope I've been able to do the idea justice even though it's taken me a long time to finish it <3
> 
> Beta by the ever so glorious and patient [NurseDarry](https://nursedarry.tumblr.com/) <3

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, seasoned lawyer at Shield Legal Services, New York City office, is in a bad mood.

He’s driving down the I-90 from Buffalo in his sleek black company car, AC running on cool to keep the air from growing stuffy. He’s got his jaw set in that particular way he  _ knows _ will cause him a major headache in a few hours, but right now the last thing on his mind is his own future discomfort.

It had been a pro bono job. The firm does those from time to time. This time, the case had been a young woman; a single mother recently accepted to SUNY, with full custody of a two year old son. She had requested an increase in child support from the father – a grade-A asshole in Bucky’s professional opinion, and a first class dick in his unprofessional one – but had been turned down. 

Apparently, the court found the evidence provided to be insufficient to prove that the mother actually  _ needed  _ the money. Nevermind she’s now a student. A part-time one, yes, but one who’s still in need of paying for a babysitter five days a week, Bucky thinks bitterly as he floors the gas a bit harder while passing a truck, heading down the highway with the headlights illuminating the asphalt ahead. To top it all off, the so-called 'father' in question had barely even bothered to show up in court to begin with. The smug look on his face when the verdict had been delivered had been more than enough to make Bucky want to punch his teeth in, one by one.

Dammit, Bucky had been so sure they’d win! The case should have been foolproof!

Instead, Bucky had spent his afternoon trying his best to comfort a now-devastated woman, drying her tears and patting her shoulders while the guilt burned away inside his chest. If only he hadn’t been so sure of himself. That poor girl…

He cruises past another car with his fingers curling hard into the leather of the steering wheel. It’s starting to get dark outside, and he had left Buffalo at a much later hour than he had planned to. He’s hungry, but he only has another hour left before he reaches Albany, so there’s no point in stopping for food now. He’s booked a room at a nice hotel, and he plans to have a warm meal and good night’s sleep before continuing the remaining three hour drive home in the morning. That is, if he even manages to fall asleep to begin with. 

Bucky doesn’t deal with failure well. He’s pretty sure a lot of lawyers don’t, even though they don’t want to show it, but Bucky never taught himself to put on such a show. Doesn’t mean he deals with emotions well, even though he never learned how to hide them. And he hates losing. Not for his own sake, but for the clients’. Especially during pro bono cases. There’s a reason these people can’t afford legal council on their own, and to have their last chance – their only chance, more often than not – ripped out of their hands like that breaks Bucky’s heart in ways he can’t describe.

Occupational hazard, he’s been told, but the hell, he’s only human. He can’t turn that part off; he’s not a  _ machine. _ Even though many like to cast him as a villain due to his choice of profession.

He’s just passing a sign thanking him for visiting the town of Herkimer when another car comes down the road, heading in the opposite direction. Politely, Bucky turns the brights down and then switches them on again when the oncoming car has passed. Only, as he flips the switch, instead of lighting up,  _ all _ of the lights on  _ and  _ inside of his car promptly turn themselves  _ off _ . For a moment, he’s driving blind, and it’s not until that point that he realizes exactly how fast he’s actually going. With panic surging up through his chest, he desperately flips the lightswitch again, and finds that he’s about three seconds away from flying off the road as the low beams once again illuminate the space in front of the hood.

He veers, and somehow manages to get the car back and pointed to where it’s supposed to go. His heart is pounding against the inside of his ribs, his breath coming out in short bursts. 

“Jesus fucking Christ…!” he gasps, more because he has to make an actual sound than to convey an opinion. Jesus Christ indeed, he could have gotten himself killed! What the fuck just happened?

Experimentally, Bucky flips the switch for a third time to turn the brights back on. However, as he does, the car and road once again goes pitch black before him, and he quickly swaps back to the less-than optimal alternative of driving without full lights.

That’s when he begins to notice there are other things in the car that are suddenly behaving strangely as well.

He can’t seem to turn on the radio, no matter how many times he presses the power button. In an ironic quirk, on the other hand, he can’t turn the fan to the AC  _ off _ , which is bad since the sun is setting and it’s just a matter of time before the slight chill will turn freezing. Even more alarming is the fact that he also can’t alter the settings to the cruise control. He nudges the brakes to take it off, which seems to work, thank god. The illumination of the dashboard appear to stay lit as long as he sticks to using regular headlights, but no matter how many times Bucky flips the lightswitch, the high beams simply won’t work. 

Bucky’s no expert on cars, but even  _ he _ can tell that something’s obviously wrong.

The car is still running though, for what it’s worth, and Bucky throws a quick look at the dashboard clock to check the time, realizing that it’s blinking 00:00 at him. With a sigh, he squints his eyes and looks at his wrist watch instead. He still has another hour at the very least before he reaches Albany. 

He could wing it, of course, and trust that whatever’s off with his car won’t get any worse before he gets there.

He could also wing it and end up a wet smear on the highway, should the error decide to persevere. There’s something undeniably anxiety-provoking about driving a car that might fall apart on you at any given second – or worse, catch fire, as Bucky’s mind readily supplies – that makes Bucky quickly begin to scan the road ahead for a good place to stop.

The first sign he passes guides him towards Fort Herkimer.  Bucky has no idea what kind of a place that is, but he turns off the interstate and follows the directions nonetheless.

Turns out, Fort Herkimer is a very small community – barely enough to be called a town, really, and as Bucky steers down the street, his heart sinks inside his chest. There’s no way he’ll be able to find anyone to help him here. Then, just as he’s about to give up on trying, his eyes fall on a small, near-invisible sign at the edge of the road.

The sign is green, and Bucky has to pull over in order to read what it says. He leaves the motor running, though, because he doesn’t want to risk turning it off and not be able to start it up again.  

The sign points him towards one of the houses down the road, and once he gets there, another sign announces that he’s arrived at  _ Guido’s Garage. _ However, as he turns his eyes to the house, he can’t help but notice how dark it looks. There are no lights shining in the windows, and the garage is just as lifeless as the rest of the premises. It looks well and truly closed for business.

“Fuck…” Bucky groans under his breath, a mere second before a light tap on his windshield nearly has him jumping out of his skin. He whips his head around to stare out into the dark at the face suddenly leaning down to peer in through his window.

It’s a woman. She looks about Bucky’s age, with blonde hair framing her face. She gives him a little wave, followed by a warm smile, and Bucky does his best to return it as he fumbles to get his window to wind down, only to realize that the button to that has decided to quit as well.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he cracks the door open. “I’m just—”

He’s immediately cut off when a dog the size of a scooter immediately makes an attempt to muscle its head in through the gap in the door, and Bucky jumps back with a surprised –  _ surprised _ , he tells himself,  _ not  _ terrified! – squawk.

“Zeus!” the woman berates, tugging the dog back with a steady grip around its collar, before adding towards Buck, “I’m sorry. He just really likes going for car rides.”

“It’s alright,” Bucky assures her, even as he slowly sinks back into his seat. “He just caught me off guard.”

“You look like you’re lost,” the woman says, straightforward, but gently, and Bucky slumps his shoulders with a sigh. 

“That obvious?” he asks before dejectedly gesturing to his dashboard. “The electricity started going haywire out on the interstate. Figured I better go looking for someone to help me while the thing still runs.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’re not gonna get any of that here,” the woman informs him, sounding genuinely apologetic. “At least not tonight.” As Bucky lets out a dejected groan, she gives him a studious look before adding, “However, there’s a mechanic in Little Falls not far from here who I’m sure could help you.”

“Really?” Bucky asks, perking up. The woman nods.

“Yeah. My brother uses him all the time. Says he’s a miracle worker, which means a lot seeing what a perfectionist my brother is when it comes to his cars.”

“Thats sounds too good to be true,” Bucky says wistfully. “You don't happen to have an address for this guy?” 

“Oh, you won't need one,” she tells him. “Just follow this road until you reach Little Falls, six miles down. Then keep going until you get to the sign pointing you back to the interstate. Passing the intersection, you take a left, heading out towards the north part of town until you see a big, white house on the right-hand side with a garage next to it, and you're there.”

“Take left, white house, right side….” Bucky repeats dutifully while typing the directions into his phone. “Thanks, miss… I, uh, believe you just saved my night.”

It makes her laugh. It's a nice laugh, warm and cheery. 

“It’s Sharon,” she says. “And don't mention it. Just tell him Peggy’s niece sent you, and he'll fix you right up.”

“Thanks, I will.” He flashes her a smile. “You have a good evening.”

“Thanks, you too.”

She smiles back at him as Bucky closes the car door. It’s a bit tricky, seeing as he first has to make sure not to accidentally clip any dogs in the gap as he does so, but once the door is closed, Bucky urges the car back into motion to head down the appointed road. As he throws a glance in the rearview mirror, he sees Sharon raise her hand to give him a final wave, before turning around to continue her walk, Zeus trotting dutifully along by her side.

The road is dark, but its not as heavy in traffic as the highway, so Bucky doesn't have to worry about people getting annoyed with him for driving too slow, which he's grateful for. He keeps expecting the motor to suddenly start coughing, or the dashboard to spontaneously catch fire, but by the time he reaches the sign welcoming him to Little Falls, nothing's changed.

However, following Sharon's instructions turns out to be a bit trickier than he'd first thought. Spotting the sign to the interstate, Bucky turns left, only to remember at the exact moment he does that he was supposed to have waited until  _ after _ the intersection to do so. He tries to find his way back, but somehow manages to turn himself around, until he realizes that he's most likely heading back the exact same way he came.

Cursing under his breath, he pulls up to the curb and digs his phone out of his pocket. He opens up Google Maps, staring down at the web of streets projected on his screen, only to realize that he has absolutely no idea where he is. 

“Goddamnit!” Bucky barely resists the urge to toss his phone at the steering wheel, but he still ends up nearly dropping the damn thing when a tap on his passenger window startles him half to death.

Looking up, he sees a woman – the second in less than half an hour – smiling back at him from the other side, and he quickly winds down the passenger window (because apparently, the electricity on that side works just fine?).

“Yeah?” he asks warily.

“You look like you’re lost,” the woman says. She sounds amused, and she speaks with an accent that reminds Bucky of Russian, only softer.

“Yeah, I—” Bucky cuts himself off, gesturing to his phone. “I'm looking for a guy to help me with my car. I was told he's got a place north of here, but I seem to have gotten turned around and I can’t seem to figure this damn map out. Would you, uh, mind pointing me in the right direction?”

“Well, there's only one person like that in this town,” the woman says, and the look she gives Bucky makes him feel… oddly exposed as she continues, ‘You're looking for Steve Rogers.”

“I don't know his name,” Bucky confesses. “I was sent here by a woman named Sharon.” 

“Sharon?” comes a voice from outside the car, and next thing, a second woman has ducked her head through the window to join the conversation. 

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. The two women exchange looks, and the second woman – a redhead – smirks secretively.

“Definitely Steve,” she says, not to Bucky, but to the rest of their little group which is still (thankfully) standing outside the car. 

“You're actually not that far away,” a blond man in a purple sweater from behind the redhead informs him. “You're just one street off.”

“Really?” Bucky looks down the street, frowning. “I thought I was going west.”

“Not really,” the first woman says. “All you have to do is take the next right over by the traffic lights, and then keep heading straight. You'll be there in less than three minutes.”

“Oh… Thanks.” Bucky offers lamely. Meanwhile, the redhead has been standing with her head cocked and her arms folded over her chest, looking him up and down.

“You're not from around here, are you?” she asks, obviously already knowing the answer.

“The city,” Bucky replies, upon which the redhead chuckles.

“City boy, huh?” Once again, she flashes the other woman a smile before looking back at Bucky. “Don't worry, you'll be in capable hands. Rogers knows what he's doing.” Her eyes trail over the front of Bucky's suit and tie. “I'm sure he'll take good care of you.”

At that, the first woman quickly ducks her head with a snorted laugh which she just barely manages to hide behind her hand at the same time as she gives the redhead a swat on the arm. There's a joke here, Bucky's sure, but either he's lost his sense of humor, or these guys’ jokes are just lost on him.

“Well… thanks again,” he says. He makes an attempt to get the window back up. It doesn't budge. Sighing, he gives the group a polite smile as he puts the car into drive. 

He takes a right by the traffic light, as instructed, and keeps going. The redhead’s smile lingers at the back of his mind even as he drives, and the paranoid part of him wonders if maybe he just allowed himself to be fooled most spectacularly? That maybe he's now driving off into nowhere with a faulty window for the amusement of a few drunken locals. 

Just as he begins to contemplate whether or not he should turn back, he rounds a bend in the road and spots the house. 

It's a white two storey building with a nice little garden in front, and a classic roofed wraparound deck, albeit missing the mandatory hammock. 

Next to the house, there's a parking lot with several cars neatly lined up along the yard, and on the other side of that, there's a two-door garage. It's almost as big as the house itself, despite only having one floor, and Bucky gives a sigh of relief when the sign marked ‘Rogers' Auto Repair’ comes into view next to the road.

As he turns onto the property, he notices that the garage doors are cracked open. There's light coming from inside, along with the loud boom of music. Bucky assumes that it’s a good thing there aren’t any neighbors around to complain about the volume, this side of town. 

It's rock music, and Bucky recognizes the iconic tunes of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s  _ Sweet Home Alabama _ . Not really Bucky's kind of tunes… 

Nonetheless, Bucky's glad to see signs of life, especially as it’s well past eight on a Saturday night, and all local establishments ought to have closed up several hours ago. 

It's a relief to finally turn the engine off and get out of the car (though the AC fan keeps running even after he takes the key out of the ignition). He's been on the edge for almost an hour, and the tension in his muscles has turned into an ache that has him groaning as he gives his back a long stretch. The night is chilly, as it often is in late September, and Bucky quickly heads for the door and the warm glow on the other side.

The music is near-deafening inside the garage, more than enough to mask the squeak of hinges as Bucky pushes the door open further to get past. There are a bunch of tires stacked along the left wall, and Bucky counts a total of three large wheeled cabinets filled with tools of various sizes. There's a workbench to the right, also with tools, but by the looks if it, used for more delicate jobs. As Bucky looks out over the garage, he sees one flatbed truck, one Harley Davidson motorcycle, and one sedan lined up next to each other on the concrete floor.

As he watches, a man suddenly pops up from the other side of the truck, singing along loudly with the radio while juggling a wrench in his hand. While Bucky looks on, the man tosses the wrench into the air, where it spins a few turns before landing safely in the guy’s hand once more. It looks easy enough; nonchalant and effortless, but Bucky's heart still leaps at the thought of what the trucks hood would’ve ended up looking like, had the guy failed to catch the wrench on the way down.

The guy, whom Bucky assumes is the famous ‘Rogers’, is dressed in denim blue, oil-stained overalls, that look about as carefully handled as his tools. Not that he seems to care. His face is streaked with oil and grease, but even Bucky can tell that there’s a ruggedly handsome face hidden underneath. Along with the sandy hair, and the neatly trimmed, full beard, he really does give off a vibe of ruggedly good looks. 

He keeps on singing as he does a little improvised dance on his way to the workbench, and it's more than obvious that he hasn't spotted Bucky yet. Bucky knocks on one of the metal cabinets by the door to get his attention, but it's a futile endeavor. His presence remains unnoticed, and Bucky boldly takes a few steps forward and cups his hands in front of his mouth, yelling out a,  _ “HELLO?!”  _ over the music at the very top of his lungs.

It does the trick. The assumed-Steve looks up, not startled, just a bit surprised, and maybe even intrigued that there's suddenly another human being inside his workshop with him. 

As Bucky points to the radio, Steve's expression changes as the realization dawns, and he quickly reaches over and turns down the volume.

“Sorry,” he offers apologetically. His voice is dark, with a hint of gravel which – for some inexplicable reason – conjures the mental image of rocky road ice cream before Bucky's inner vision as he adds a sheepish, “Didn't see you there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Bucky comments. “I take it you're Steve Rogers?”

“One and only,” Steve replies. He offers Bucky his hand, and Bucky gives it a skeptical look. The color of Steve's palm is more oil than that of skin, the bottom of his fingernails ridden with grease and whatever dirt there could possibly fit in such a narrow space. It’s not a hand Bucky feels the overwhelming desire to touch, but just as he realizes that he probably looks like the biggest asshole on the planet just standing there, Steve pulls the hand back. 

“Sorry,” he says again, although with less remorse this time as he reaches for a rag sticking out of his back pocket. “Wouldn’t wanna get your suit messed up, now would we?” His voice is still cheerful, but there’s an edge to it now. It’s closed off, and the way he looks at Bucky has Bucky just barely repressing an indignant huff as he squares his shoulders. 

He sees the way Steve’s glance lingers on the lapel of Bucky’s suit jacket even as he turns away to face the bench, seemingly no longer interested in why Bucky’s there. 

“I need help with my car,” Bucky prompts, bristling slightly when Steve responds with a snorted laugh.

“Yeah, that’s what most people come here for,” he says. He tucks the rag back into his pocket. “So what’s the problem? You need an oil change? Service? A refill of signal fluid?”

Bucky scowls. He’s fully aware that there’s no such thing as ‘signal fluid’. Is this guy trying to be funny, or does he really think Bucky’s that stupid?

“There’s something wrong with the headlights,” he says cooly. “Along with a bunch of other stuff. I think it’s something with the wiring.”

“Depends on what the ‘other stuff’ is,” Steve argues. “For starters, what makes you think it’s electric?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Bucky retorts acidly, because really, what's with the tone? “If the headlights suddenly go on strike, my radio dies, and my AC keeps going even though I’ve turned off the car, my first thought ain’t exactly to go fill up on gas.”

“The AC’s still running?” Steve asks, suddenly sounding more animated than he had before, and Bucky responds by simply dangling his key fob in the air in front of Steve’s face. Steve snatches them out of his hand with another lowering snort.

“Let’s have a look then,” he says, walking past Bucky and out of the garage, not bothering to stop and check if Bucky’s following.

Once outside, Steve makes a face as he opens the door and not only finds the AC still running like a racehorse, but also that half the lights on the console are irregularly flickering on and off.

Bucky gives him a silent, ‘told you so’ look, to which Steve replies with his own, “whatever,” eye-roll, before pulling the lever to pop the hood open. Bucky waits with his arms crossed over his chest as Steve walks around to duck his head over the engine with a tiny flashlight he’s managed to produce from one of his pockets. He doesn’t have to wait long until Steve gives a triumphant noise and reappears with a cable in his hand.

“Here’s your problem,” he says. “This bad-boy’s practically chewed straight through.”

He tosses the cable to Bucky, who manages to catch it just before it hits him in the face. Looking down, he finds that the cable is indeed torn and frayed with metal threads poking out through a hole in the insulation.   

“Friction,” Steve explains simply. “Whoever took this engine apart last sure did a poor-ass job of putting it back together again.”

“Well, it’s a company car,” Bucky says shortly. “I don’t know who had it last.”

“Figures,” Steve mumbles, and Bucky’s pretty sure that was meant as an insult to Bucky more than the company’s failure of hiring good personnel.

“How fast can you get it fixed?” Bucky asks impatiently. “I need to get to Albany tonight.”

“Oh, buddy, that ain’t happening,” Steve says, chuckling in amusement at Bucky’s naivety. “You’re not going anywhere without a new cable.”

“So?” Bucky grumbles. “Just put one in. Surely you have a spare lying around in there somewhere?” 

Steve gives him a long look, and then drops the hood back down with a mute bang. “You’d think,” he says blankly. “But no. I’ll have to go into town to buy the right one, and it’s already too late. Everything’s closed.”

“Can’t you call someone, then?” Bucky insists. “Small town like this, everyone’s bound to know everyone.”

“Sorry, hot shot,” Steve says, sounding like he thinks Bucky’s anything but. “Looks like this small town’s where you’ll be spending the night.”

“It’s Barnes,” Bucky corrects. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Steve says, stealing the cable out of Bucky’s grip as he walks past and back towards the garage without a second glance. Bucky curls his hands into fists by his sides so hard he can feel the nails dig crescent moons into his palms, before letting them go with a slow, grounding exhale.

“I’m gonna need your phone number,” Steve informs him over his shoulder as they cross the threshold to the workshop once more. He heads up to a small locker on the wall above the workbench, opens it, and unhooks a key from the rows of keys inside. He tosses it to Bucky with the same indifference as he had thrown the cable outside, but this time Bucky is expecting as much, and catches it one-handed.

“You can borrow a car off me until tomorrow, to get you back to town,” Steve offers. “I’d normally recommend you spend the night at the Travelodge, but…” He looks Bucky up and down again. “Perhaps the Overlook Mansion would be more your style?”

Since he has absolutely no idea what the Overlook Mansion actually is, Bucky decides not to comment on that. Instead, he walks up to the bench and grabs a pen and notepad that’s lying there, flips past the first pages until he hits one that’s not covered in scribbles and doodles. There, Bucky writes down the number of the car’s license plate, followed by the number to his cellphone and his last name.  

Once he’s done, he tosses Steve the notepad, disappointed when Steve catches it without any effort at all. Steve looks at the numbers, and smirks.

“Welcome to Little Falls, Mr. Barnes.” 

Somehow, he manages to make Bucky’s name come out more like a taunt than a form of address. Steve doesn’t seem the type to call anyone Mister unless he’s using it as an euphemism for dickhead… 

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters back, glaring. “Thanks.”

 

/\/\/\

 

The loaner is, for lack of a better word, a heap of junk. If Bucky didn’t know any better, he’d be willing to bet next month’s salary that Rogers gave him his worst car on purpose, just to fuck with him. The thing practically  _ reeks _ of wet dog, and drives with a deafening rattle that has Bucky genuinely scared to stop at any red lights in case it might fall apart on him.

Luckily for him, it doesn’t, and it is with great relief that Bucky reaches the Travelodge parking lot. He’s tired, and hungry, but he’s already made the decision to dump his bags at the motel room before heading out in search of food.

The place doesn’t look like much, he has to admit, but it’s  _ there, _ and it’s  _ open _ , and once he gets himself and his suitcase inside, he concludes that all in all, it’s not a bad place.

The people who run it are friendly and eager to help, and the rooms are simple, but clean without any funky smells. Bucky knows that it could’ve been a lot worse, and he’s pleasantly surprised to discover that the motel – despite his former experiences with Travelodges – actually has an on-site restaurant.

As he flops down on the bed, his stomach impatiently reminds him that he hasn’t eaten since noon, and he calls the front desk, using the phone on the bedside table. He’s informed that the restaurant is indeed still open, and that he’s also free to order room service, should he want it.

As if that’s even a question.

He orders up a hot pastrami sandwich and a Coke, and he even has time to grab a quick shower while he waits for room service. Coming out of the shower, however, he realizes that he doesn’t have any other clothes with him that are relatively clean apart from the Hugo Boss suit he’d used in court earlier that morning. He could still wear the suit from this afternoon, of course, but Bucky’s not fond of showering only to get back into clothes that smell of highway stress, oncoming migraines, and, most recently, wet dog.

The sandwich tastes delicious. Then again, most things do when you’re hungry. Bucky finds himself genuinely feeling a bit sad when it’s gone. But now he needs a drink. A  _ real _ drink.

Bucky doesn’t waste time, and throws his suit jacket over his shoulders and heads on out. He remembers passing a bar on the way to the hotel, and if his math is right – which it usually is – it shouldn’t be more than a three minute walk away. Seeing as Bucky’s not interested in anything other than getting a seat under his ass and a cold one down his throat as soon as possible, that’s where he sets his course.

The bar is, just like everything else in this town, predictable. It’s got everything from the rugged oak bar counter, to the tipsy crowd hanging by the pool table, to the jukebox sitting in the corner. A few people give him odd looks as he walks through the door in a dress shirt and suit jacket, but not nearly as many as he’d expected. The bartender’s gaze lingers on him as Bucky walks straight up to one of the stools and waves him closer.

“I’ll have a shot and a beer,” he says simply. “Whatever you give people who’ve had a real shitty day,” he adds, before the man can ask.  

The order gets accepted with a curt nod, and soon enough, Bucky is gratefully tipping back the shot of Jack and lifting a frosted mug of the local brew to his lips. 

Reluctantly, he hauls his phone out of his pocket. He opens up the email app and begins to compose a message to his boss about what’s happened. Not that it matters much, they’re not expecting him back at the office until Monday anyway, but considering it’s the company car that’s currently being held hostage at a shop out in the sticks, Bucky figures he might as well give Fury a head’s up.

Writing takes time – really, proper sentence structure and tone is important, here – and he’s already gotten halfway through his beer by the time he’s finally managed to create something good enough to press  _ send _ . Finishing the last obligation of the day lifts a weight off his shoulders he hadn’t been aware of being that heavy. Afterwards, he’s more than prepared to finally set work aside and get himself stupid drunk, just for the hell of it, when a sudden ruckus from the door catches his attention.

Looking to his left, he sees three men come stumbling through the doorway, laughing loudly as if they’ve just heard the joke of the century. The guy at the front stands out the most; tall – a good head taller than Bucky – and there’s a definite bulk to the man’s chest and biceps that pulls the fabric of the shirt taut over his torso. He’s visibly intoxicated, with a red flush over his cheeks and nose, and his friends don’t seem to be better off than he is.

The moment they come inside however, the bartender squares his shoulders with a glare.

“Hey!” he calls out sternly. “I thought I told you to stay out of here, Rollins!”

“C’mon, Wilson!” the man, Rollins, shouts back. “We’re just looking for a little fun.”

“Not in here, you ain’t,” Wilson declares, and Rollins’ step falters. But only for a second.

“What?” he asks. “You still mad about that bullshit? I paid you back, didn’t I?”

“That’s not the point and you know it.”

“Then what is?” Rollins asks. Bucky watches him straighten up, puffing up his chest as he takes a few steps closer to the bar. “You worried I’m gonna scare off your  _ clientele _ , is that it?” Suddenly, his glance falls on Bucky, and even though Bucky quickly looks away, he realizes that he’s too late when Rollins continues, “Like this fancy-looking fella right here?”

A hand slaps down hard on Bucky’s left shoulder, and Bucky does his best to keep staring down into the bar, up until the point where Rollins gives him a hard shake.

“You’re not from around here, are you, pretty boy?”

Bucky swallows hard, licking his lips. “No, I’m not,” he replies, making sure to keep his voice steady.

“Lemme guess,” Rollins says, and Bucky hears his friends laugh as he proceeds to sit down on the stool next to Bucky’s own. Bucky throws a quick glance at Wilson, but Wilson is still glaring at Rollins, so Bucky disguises the glance by taking a fleeting sip of his beer instead .

“Yeah,” Rollins muses after a moment of contemplation, “You’re from the city, aren’t you?”

Bucky nods as he puts the beer down. “What gave me away?” he asks quietly, already suspecting what the answer will be.

“You’re kidding, right?” Rollins asks, laughing under his breath, and the tone of it instantly has Bucky going rigid beneath the heavy weight of Rollins’ palm. He tries not to show it by forcing himself to relax again, but even as he slumps his shoulders, the tension remains; the instinct of self-perseverance kicking in without his consent. He throws a quick glance over his shoulder at the other two strangers, who are already snickering and mumbling while sending amused looks his way. 

Yeah, this is bad.

“I mean, look at you,” Rollins continues, just as amused as before. “With threads like that?”

“Rollins, I’m not telling you again,” Wilson growls. “Get. Out.”

“You’re a fag, right?” Rollins asks loudly, ignoring Wilson’s order. The question instantly sends the skin at the back of Bucky’s neck prickling in all the wrong ways. He’s heard this kind of talk plenty of times before, and he knows all the different ways this can end. His best bet is in the alley out back, with a generous amount of blood and possibly some broken bones… 

“I mean, you look like a fag to me. Don’t he look like a fag to you?” Rollins asks over his shoulder, still with an iron grip on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Sure does,” one of the two friends replies easily, smirking widely at Bucky from across the bar.

“See?” Rollins says while leaning down to catch Bucky’s gaze, invading his personal space until Bucky’s entire field of vision is just Rollins’ face and shoulders. Bucky has to physically turn away when the pungent smell of cigarette breath and stale beer hits him when Rollins adds an ominous, “I mean, if you are…”

This place, Bucky decides, and this conversation, are two things he really doesn't want to be in right now. Or ever, for that matter. Not because he’s offended by the accusation – hell, the guy’s right, after all – but the threatening tone that lingers at the end of every sentence speaks more than any words ever could. It’s the kind of tone that makes Bucky wish he really would’ve stayed at the hotel rather than going out. As he grabs for his beer once more in an attempt to stall for time, Rollins suddenly gives his shoulder a hard shove.

“Hey!” he demands. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you, asshole!”

“Rollins!” Wilson barks, phone in hand, probably in the process of calling the cops. Bucky half-slides off his seat with the full and unbridled intention to flee, even though Rollins still has him caught by the sleeve of his jacket. 

“Listen,” Bucky pleads, desperately, “I don’t want any trouble—”

In the back of his mind, he absently registers the sound of the front door opening and closing, voices rising, the sound of the jukebox momentarily getting drowned out, but it’s all secondary to the highly insistent voice in the back of his head, currently screaming at him to  _ run. _

“Are you tryin’ to be a smartass?” Rollins snaps. He shoves at Bucky again, sending him staggering backwards so hard, Bucky knocks his half-finished drink over with his elbow, sloshing beer all over the bar. “You lookin’ for a fight,  _ faggot? _ ”

Bucky’s ready. He  _ could  _ stay and fight, he knows, but seeing as Rollins isn’t alone, and there are two more guys standing right behind him, Bucky knows better than to try. He’s fully prepared to simply turn around and haul ass right out the door, but just as he sees Rollins wobble off his seat with arms raised to give him yet another shove, someone steps in between them.

“Heya, Jack,” a calm voice greets cheerfully. “Taking it easy tonight?”

Bucky frowns. He recognizes that voice, and even though he ought to be grateful for the human shield now standing between him and Rollins – whose first name is apparently Jack – Bucky can't help the spark of annoyance the voice ignites inside his chest.

Apparently, Bucky hadn't been the only one enjoying a shower this evening. Steve barely looks the same without the oil streaks on his face, or the tussled unruly hair. He's got on blue jeans and a plaid shirt; a red, white, and blue thing which is currently filling up Bucky’s entire field of vision. The only part of Rollins that’s showing over Rogers’ shoulder is the venomous glare he aims at Steve’s face as Steve continues:

“I see you’ve met Mr. Barnes.”

Rollin’s glare rapidly shifts from Steve to Bucky, and then back to Steve again as he finally lets go of Bucky’s jacket.

“Should’ve figured he'd be a friend of yours,” he says with a lowering snort and a nod Bucky’s way. “Didn't think fairies like that were your type?”

“They're not,” Steve retorts, just as calmly, and Bucky frowns. Fairies?  _ Type?  _ No, that can't be right, there's no way that Steve’s also—  “Now, Jack,” Steve continues, “correct me if I'm wrong, but did I just overhear you say something about  _ faggots? _ ”

Bucky expects another snarky response from Rollins, but to his combined surprise and confusion, Rollins immediately snaps his mouth shut, growing still. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Wilson put down his phone. Clearly they both know something Bucky doesn’t.

“Pretty offensive word, don't you think?” Steve continues with a pointed tilt of his head. “I mean, let's say someone with homosexual tendencies overheard that. My bet’s they'd be pretty offended.”

“Back off, Rogers. This ain't ‘bout you,” Rollins tries.  _ Try _ being the appropriate word, because Steve doesn't back off. Not at all. Instead, Bucky gets to look on as Steve casually reaches out and brushes off some imaginary speck of dust from Rollins’ collar, before clamping his hand down on top of the man's shoulder. 

“I think you should go back to your friends now, Jack,” Steve says slowly. His voice has dropped, and there's an edge to it now that sends a ripple of  _ something _ racing up Bucky’s spine.

He looks around. People have stopped talking, and there are eyes from all around the room focused on the scene playing out between the three of them. Rollins has noticed the audience too, and Bucky groans under his breath at the rebellious tension that appears in the man’s jaw as he shakes off Steve's hand.

“First, me and this poof here’s gonna step outside,” he declares with an aggressive finger pointed at Bucky’s face. “I'mma teach him about being a smart-ass in my town.”

“ _ Our _ town,” Steve corrects sternly. “And you're not teaching anyone anything, especially not one of my clients. You see, here’s how it works…” He steps back, and Bucky tries to look indifferent as he feels the warmth from Steve's hand settle between his shoulder blades as Steve continues, “You send my client to the hospital, I don't get paid. And if I don't get paid, I can't afford to feed my dog.” He fixes his gaze on Jack's face. “And you  _ do _ remember how much I love my dog, don't you, Jack?”

Whether Rollins remembers or not, Bucky can't tell, but the tension that lowers itself over the bar indicates that everyone else sure seems to.

“Go to hell, Rogers,” Rollins spits out, and Bucky actually  _ hears _ the gasp from the people behind them as he then continues, “And take your nancy-boy here with you.”

“Jack,” Steve warns.

“Don’t you fucking ‘Jack’ me, you cocksucking piece of shit!”

“Hey!” Bucky says sharply as he takes a step forwards to get between them before things escalate further, but he’s too late. Rollins already has a fist in the air, and as Bucky moves, the blow which was most likely aimed at Steve, connects with the side of Bucky’s jaw in a mute bang that Bucky can feel reverberate down his spine. It sends him stumbling backwards, and he just barely manages to get a hold of the bar before he falls flat on his ass in front of everybody.

Wobbling to his feet, he prepares himself for another blow, and the potential need to throw one himself, but turns out he doesn’t have to. Before Bucky can move or even raise his arms, Steve’s surged forward and has grabbed Rollins by the side of the neck. Without even as much as a hint of effort, or struggle for that matter, he kicks Rollins’ legs out from underneath him, and then slams his head into the bar so hard it makes the glasses hanging from the rails above it rattle.

Rollins sags down, and Steve hoists him up and onto the nearest barstool with the same grace as he had just knocked him down. He leaves him slumped forward with his arms hanging over the edge like a drunken ragdoll.

It all happens so fast, Bucky barely has time to react. Once he does, he feels the panic rise inside his chest, because that guy has  _ friends _ , and they’re  _ not _ going to be happy about Steve having just wiped the bar with their buddy’s face. Vision spinning, Bucky turns to look behind them, already expecting the two there to be heading their way, but they’re not. They’re watching, yeah, but they don’t look like they’re planning on moving anytime soon.

“You okay?” Steve asks, and it takes Bucky a second to realize he’s talking to  _ him. _

“What?” he says, frowning at the lack of, “Yeah, I’m good,” that he had intended to say, but Steve doesn’t seem to care. The fact that Bucky’s awake and capable of speech seems to be enough confirmation that he’s doing just fine. Instead, Steve turns to Wilson behind the bar and throws his hands out in a shrug.

“Sorry, Sam,” he offers apologetically, as if he’s simply broken a glass rather than a guy’s nose. “Didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

“No worries,” Wilson– Sam, replies as he casually hangs up a clean glass in the rack above Rollins’ head. “He would’ve ended up in that state sooner or later anyway.”

“You want help carrying him out?”

“Nah,” Sam replies. “He’s got friends for that.”

Smiling, Steve turns back to Bucky and gives his arm a quick pat. “What about you, tough guy?”

“What?” Bucky says again, cursing his stubbornly absent vocabulary. If there’s a blush on his cheeks he firmly decides that it’s all due to adrenaline, not embarrassment.

“Can I get you anything?” Steve asks, slower. As he leans in to give Bucky a concerned look, Bucky quickly straightens up.

“Some ice would be good,” he admits with a slow rub against his jaw, hissing at the swelling he can already feel blooming there. 

“Perhaps you should lie down?” Sam suggests politely. “You took quite a hit, and Jack here lands a punch like a donkey kicks. When he actually manages to get one in, that is.”

“I'm fine,” Bucky promises, finally getting the words right.

“C’mon then,” Steve says, patting Bucky’s shoulder as he stands up. “Lemme make this whole mess up to you.”

“Why?” Bucky asks warily, making Steve frown.

“Why not?” he counters. “If you're really feeling alright, I’ve got some beers stocked in the fridge back home. A few cans could have your name on them if you want? I mean… Might be best to be gone when this bozo comes round.” He jerks his head at the passed-out Rollins.

Bucky gives him a look out of the corner of his eye, searching Steve’s face for any signs of condescendence, but finding none. Steve’s countenance is open and honest, and Bucky sighs as he moves his hand up from his sore jaw to pull his fingers through his hair.

“Sure,” he says slowly. “Why not?”

Steve gives him another smile; a softer one than the open grin from before, and Bucky swallows as that same ripple of  _ something _ travels through him and makes the skin at the back of his neck tingle.

From his spot behind the bar, Sam gestures to the Three Stooges, of which one is just woozily waking up. “I got this.” He declares confidently. “You two head on outta here.”

“Then let’s go,” Steve says cheerfully. Before Bucky knows it, he’s following Steve out the door and across the parking lot, up to the same flatbed truck he’d seen in Steve’s workshop earlier. The cab is still fairly warm, which means that Steve had most likely only had time to park and enter the bar before getting caught in the situation going on inside. It actually has Bucky feeling bad for the guy.

“Sorry,” he says as he gets in the passenger seat. “Guess I kinda ruined your night out.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Steve says while turning on the ignition. The truck obediently rumbles to life, and Steve puts it into reverse and slowly begins to back out of the parking space, slinging a hand over the back of Bucky’s seat in order to get a better look behind them. “Saved me a few bucks. And tell you the truth, I feel more sorry for you than my Saturday night.” He glances at Bucky. “You sure you doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says as Steve puts the car back into drive. “I mean, I would’ve ended up far worse if you hadn’t showed. You saved my neck back there.”

“You would’ve been fine,” Steve assures him. “Sam was on the case, and normally Jack’s just all talk. In fact, odds are he would’ve left it at that if I hadn’t stomped right into it…”

“Sounds like you guys have a past,” Bucky comments, and Steve lets out a low chuckle.

“Yeah, Jack Rollins and I go way back,” he admits. “Guy’s got a fuse shorter than his dick. He’s always the first to pick a fight, about literally anything. A few weeks ago he tried to get Sam to fight him by talking shit about the way he poured his drinks.”

“How’d that go?”

“Sam told him to either shut up and drink his fucking beer, or get the hell out. Jack decided that he was more interested in being right than drinking, and Sam kicked him out.” Steve sighs, shaking his head softly. “Sorry, I know I’m making the guy sound like a first-class a-hole, but he’s just… not the brightest. I mean, he’ll most likely be miserable about punching you in the morning.”

“Well ain’t I lucky,” Bucky says with an exaggerated eye roll that makes Steve laugh, and yeah, Bucky’s spine  _ really _ needs to stop doing that whole shivery-thing. “So…” he hesitates. “What was that talk you guys had about your dog?”

Steve’s smile fades a little, and Bucky immediately regrets having asked. However, when Steve opens his mouth and begins to speak, he doesn’t sound too bothered.

“That’s a long story. And not the best one for me to tell if I want you to keep a good impression of me.”

“Why?” Bucky asks. “Because watching you beat a guy’s face in with a bar makes you come off as such a stand-up guy?”

“Well…” Steve says with an amused quirk of his lips. “Gotta admit, I didn’t really think about it that way.” He takes a deep breath and then lets it out again in a rush. “Alright, I'll tell, but don't say I didn't warn ya…”

Bucky nods, and Steve gnaws his bottom lip for a second before continuing, “It all went down three years ago, when a stray dog wandered into town. No idea where it came from; if he’d been left behind by someone, or just gotten lost, we don’t know. Anyway, this dog takes to wandering up and down the main drag and back alleys, thin as a rake – well, if rakes had four legs and a tail, I mean. He was limping, and his paws were all torn up… My guess is he’d walked for miles before reaching our little corner of the world. Poor thing was starving, but he was so wary of humans, he wouldn’t get anywhere near you, even if you offered him food.”

“And I take it you know that because…?” Bucky leaves the question hanging, and Steve smirks.

“What can I say?” he confesses, “I’m a sucker for dogs. I think I spent an entire month leaving food down alleyways for that mutt, making sure he saw me offering it to him before I left. Took me ages, but… the day he walked up and took the food out of my hand made it all worth it.”

“So what happened?” Bucky asks.

“Well… turned out, not everyone in this town was a dog-lover. Rollins being one of those people. He and his friends started talking one night about the dangers of stray dogs. About how they could spread mange and rabies to pets around tow.”

“That couldn’t have been good,” Bucky comments, and Steve shakes his head.

“It wasn't. One night, they decided someone should put the dog out of its misery. So they went to track it down, in the middle of the night, drunk off their asses. Luckily, I found out. Tracked them down first.”

“You make it sound like you killed them with a sniper-rifle,” Bucky scoffs, but this time Steve doesn’t smile back. 

“Probably because I didn’t have one with me,” he says grimly, by the sound of his voice only half-joking. “By the time I’d found them, they had the poor dog cornered behind a diner, scared out of its wits. Five full grown men against one tiny puppy…” Steve’s fingers flex around the steering wheel, and Bucky doesn’t need to look at his face to imagine how tense it is. 

“Long story short, we ended up in a fist fight. I took down two of them before their drunken heads caught on to what was happening. Then, before I know it, Jack’s got a gun in his hands, and I have two guys holding me down. I swear, I thought I was gonna get it, right then and there…”

“So what did you do?” Bucky asks quietly.

“I didn’t do anything,” Steve says. He throws Bucky a quick glance before looking back at the road. “The dog did. Bit Rollins in the leg, right below the knee. Rollins started screaming his head off, and the guys holding me down got startled. I broke loose, punched one of them in the face, and elbowed the other in the stomach. Meanwhile, Rollins used the butt of the gun to get the dog off his leg before I could get to him, and we ended up fighting over it. Somehow – don’t ask me how – I ended up with my finger on the trigger, and the gun aimed at Jack's head.”

Bucky arches his eyebrows. “Well…” he reasons. “Since his face was still intact, and he was still very much alive back there, I take it you didn’t actually _shoot_ him?”

“No, I didn’t,” Steve agrees. “Truth is, I didn’t even want to. I was so angry, my hands were shaking, and I could have beaten his face in without a second thought. But the idea of actually pulling the trigger never crossed my mind.” He sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping. “I don't like guns. Never have.”

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbles. “Me neither.”

Steve clears his throat and sits up taller in his seat. “Anyway,” he continues, a bit brighter. “I told Jack, very politely, that if he as much as looked at that dog the wrong way again, he and I were gonna have a long, thorough discussion on the matter. In private.”

“I take it he had no objections?”

“Nope. Everything seemed crystal clear.”

“And the dog?” Bucky prompts.

“Kept him,” Steve replies. “Got him washed, checked, vaccinated, the works. Never got him to walk on a leash, but with the yard and the fields so close, there’s never been any need for that.” He glances at Bucky, suddenly looking worried. “Uh, speaking of, you’re not allergic or anything, are you?”

“No,” Bucky promises. “My cousins had dogs when we were kids. I wanted one, but mom’s a cat person, you know?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, chuckling. “I know what that’s like.”

Bucky looks at him. Had someone told him earlier that night that he’d be having  _ this  _ kind of conversation, with  _ this  _ guy, of all people, Bucky would have laughed his ass off. Recalling the way Steve had looked at him as Bucky came to hand in his car, and comparing it to the way he’s smiling at him from behind the wheel now, it’s like looking at two different people. What had happened to the jerk who’d made fun of Bucky’s suit? And who’s  _ this…?  _ This friendly, right-minded, and seemingly… perfect guy?

Bucky’s jostled from this train of thought as  the truck makes a turn. As Bucky looks up, he sees Steve’s garage go by as Steve drives past it and up towards the house, parking near the front porch.

“Final stop,” Steve announces, and Bucky climbs out of the cab as Steve does the same on the driver’s side. It strikes Bucky then, in that exact moment, that’s he’s just accepted an invitation from a complete stranger to not only get in his car and go for a drive with him in the middle of the night, but also to follow said stranger home to get potentially drunk.

According to all possible logic, he should be feeling at least a little bit concerned. But he’s not.

Instead, what he feels as he follows Steve up the front stairs and watches Steve fiddle with his keys, is a soft, mellow calm. He feels good about being here, for some obnoxiously mysterious reason.

Steve gets the door open, and he steps into the hallway, flipping on the lightswitch as he goes.  Then he steps aside and motions Bucky in. 

It’s a weird, and oddly chivalrous gesture, which for some reason makes Bucky feel like he’s blushing. Which he’s not. At all.

“What am I, a vampire?” he asks, even as he moves to step over the threshold, and Steve straightens up with a smirk.

“Don’t know,” he shoots back. “Are you?”

Bucky decides not to answer that as he lets his gaze sweep over the interior of the hallway he’s just entered. Admittedly, it’s… not what he had been expecting. At the same time, it totally is. 

On the left, a few steps from the door, there’s a staircase. Or at least, something that used to be a staircase. Right now, it resembles a mix between a ladder and a treehouse ripped straight out of a three-year old’s wildest dreams. There are boards and wooden planks of all different sizes piled neatly along the walls, and several tools situated across the room – not strewn about, as one could have imagined, but deliberately placed exactly where they appear to belong. It’s ordered chaos. It makes Bucky’s head hurt.

“Yeah, sorry about the mess,” Steve says from behind him as he closes the door with a light click of the lock. “I’m renovating the upstairs, but it’s getting crowded, so I have to keep some of the stuff down here for now. Oh, and don’t bother about your shoes,” he adds. “I mean, it’s not dirty, but… you know… carpentry and splinters.”

“Got it,” Bucky replies simply, just as the pitter-pat of paws reaches his ears. Looking up, he spots a dog just as it rounds the corner to what appears to be the living room. Behind Bucky, Steve lets out a laugh at the sight of the dog’s bleary-looking gaze.

“Well, well,” he says, “look who’s up. Hi, Buddy, were you sleeping? Did we wake you?”

The dog gives its tail a little wag, at the same time as it yawns widely and waddles over to Steve. Steve crouches down to grab around both sides of the dog’s head and gives it a good, heartfelt rustle.

It doesn’t look absolutely adorable. Not in any way whatsoever.

“Buddy, this is—” Steve cuts himself off and looks at Bucky with a sheepish laugh. “Uh… I’m sorry, but… do you have any other name than just Barnes?”

“James,” Bucky replies. “Although… My friends call me Bucky. Short for Buchanan.”

“James ‘Bucky’ Buchanan Barnes?” Steve repeats, sounding skeptically amused.

“One and only,” Bucky replies cockily, and Steve gives Buddy’s head a final rub before standing up and extending his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Bucky.”

“Likewise,” Bucky replies as he clasps Steve’s hand. It’s still as warm as ever, and Steve gives Bucky’s palm a light squeeze before letting go.

Meanwhile, Buddy’s turned around and is now looking up at Bucky with his tongue hanging out, as if Steve’s handshake is the best seal of approval Bucky could have been given. As Steve steps away, Buddy is there to fill the gap in half a second flat, sniffing at Bucky’s shoes before giving him a hopeful wag of his tail. Bucky rewards him with a scratch behind the ears, which produces one of those absolute blissed-out, tongue-lolling dog smiles. It makes a strange sense of pride bloom inside Bucky’s chest, and he looks up at Steve to check if Steve’s noticed Buddy’s reaction just in time to see Steve take his plaid shirt off and hang it over the pile of boards next to the staircase. 

Bucky blinks, momentarily distracted by the sudden t-shirt-clad shoulder-to-waist-ratio that’s bluntly being thrust in his face. He’s glad he’s got the dog to look back to when Steve turns around to give him a cheerful, and from the looks of it, absolutely oblivious smile.

“So, you, uh…” Bucky stutters, searching for a topic, “You’re doing it all by yourself then? The renovation, I mean?”

“Figured that's the best way to get it like I want it,” Steve says while perching his hands on his hips and looking towards the stairs while Bucky tries to not stare at the subtle outline of muscles showing through the front of Steve’s white t-shirt. Good god, is that what had been hiding beneath those blue overalls before?

“I take it that means you’ve got some hands-on experience?” he asks, wincing on the inside even before the last word leaves his mouth. Really, that hadn’t sounded  _ nearly  _ as suggestive inside his head.

“Well,” Steve says with a haphazard gesture towards the walls and ceiling around them. “My dad was a contractor. He built the place himself, from the ground up. Taught me everything I know.”

“That’s impressive,” Bucky admits with an awed arch of his eyebrows, and Steve nods.

“Yeah. He'd be spinning in his grave if I ever hired other people to tear down what he built up. So if anything’s gonna get done around here, it’s gonna get done by yours truly, or not at all.”

“Well, that’s that’s one way of doing it,” Bucky murmurs. 

Steve gives him an amused look as he walks past him, heading down the hallway. Buddy quickly trots away after him, but as Bucky takes a step to follow, Steve calls back to him, “I’m just gonna get this mutt some food, and a few of those beers for us. I’ll be right out, so make yourself at home, okay?” 

For a moment, Bucky finds himself standing awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, but then he gathers himself and heads into the living room. There are lamps lit in the windows, and even though they’re dimmed, they provide more than enough light for Bucky not to bang his toes, knees, or any other vital body parts into Steve’s furniture.

Sinking down onto the couch feels better than he had imagined it would, and it strikes him how long it’s been since he’d actually relaxed. Not just today, but in general. Sighing, Bucky allows himself to sag further into the couch cushions, closing his eyes for just a moment. From a distance, the slamming of cupboard doors, water in the sink sloshing, and the constant clatter of Buddy’s claws against wooden floor all come together to form a soothing, domesticated soundtrack. It’s been a long time since he’s heard such sounds. Felt such calm. How ironic is it that out of all the places in the world, he’d find that kind of peace in the home of a stranger? 

The thought makes him smile, and he opens his eyes as he hears footsteps approach.

“You’ve got room on there for one more?” Steve asks with an amused chuckle, and Bucky shifts himself to the left so that Steve can take a seat while also putting down two cans of beer in front of Bucky on the coffee table.

“Oh, I’m good with one, man,” Bucky politely points out, as Steve cracks his own beer open.

Steve takes a swig out of his can. Then he points to the first beer. “That one you drink,” he instructs, before pointing to the second one. “That one is for the swelling on your face.”

“Oh.” Bucky sheepishly picks up the can and gently lays it against his jaw. It’s cold, and he hisses under his breath at the sting. It passes quickly, however, and after a minute or two, the chill actually starts to feel pretty nice. 

He discreetly throws a look around the room. Having sat there for a while, his eyes have gotten used to the dim light, and he can clearly make out the picture frames in the bookcase next to the T.V., and the neat, calculated placement of every single detail across the room. Just like the tools in the hallway, they’re all practical, functional, and nothing looks even remotely out of place. And somehow it’s all still decorative; the room feels homey, comfortable, and all things Bucky didn’t think it would feel like. 

“Looks like you’ve got quite the family,” he says, and Steve looks up, following his gaze towards the plethora of photos.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Mom has a bunch of cousins. We don’t meet all that often, but we stick together.”

“That sounds nice,” Bucky comments.

“Yeah,” Steve replies. He doesn’t sound too joyful, though, and as Bucky follows  _ his _ gaze he sees that Steve’s looking at a picture sitting at the top of the bookshelf. It’s a photo of a girl, maybe seven years old at most. Blonde, dazzling smile, and cute as a button with a unicorn t-shirt, pink fairy wings strapped to her back, and a bubble wand held high above her head as she skips over what Bucky assumes is the green surface of a lawn.

“Baby sister?” Bucky asks, but Steve just shakes head.

“Niece,” he corrects. He grabs his beer, turning the can over in his hands with a sigh. “She’s in the hospital. Cancer,” he continues, before Bucky can ask. “Doctor’s says she’s got a fighting chance, but… sadly, it’s not gonna come cheap.” 

Steve takes a swig of his beer, and puts it back down. “I’m helping with the payments as best I can. I even put the renovation on hold but, you know, other than that… I can’t do much.”

“I’m sure they appreciate all the help they can get,” Bucky offers, but Steve snorts, shaking his head. 

“Mom always wanted me to go to college. Take actual classes. If I’d listened to her and really done something with my life, I might’ve been able to  _ do _ something.” He glances at Bucky. “I mean… I bet being a suit with a desk job is pretty nice.”

“Sometimes,” Bucky admits. He removes the can from his jaw and puts it down in favor of picking up the other one. Cracking it open, he drinks deep, grateful for the cool liquid as it goes down his throat. He sighs deeply before putting it down again. “But most of the time, it’s a fucking bitch and a half.”

He’s aware that Steve throws him a quizzical glance as he says it, and he sighs. “This morning I was on my way back from a case in Buffalo. I work at a law firm, did I tell you that?”

“No,” Steve says. “No, you didn’t.”

Bucky nods. “Well, anyway… I’d been away all week, representing a case, no charge. Single mom, one kid, accepted to college, and in need of child support from a guy who wouldn’t be able to spell the word ‘father’ with a fucking dictionary. It should have been easy, we should have won, but… I fucked up. I fucked up, and now that poor girl is gonna have to choose between her son and her education, and it’s my fault.” 

He glances at Steve, but he can’t bring himself to look at his face, so he settles for a denim-clad knee instead. “That’s why I was so testy towards you before. I just wanted to get home and forget about that mess for a few hours… And when I couldn’t, I took it out on you.”

“Hey, man, it’s not your fault.” Steve scoots closer, and Bucky has to keep himself from leaning into him as Steve’s knee brushes against his.

“Isn’t it?” he asks. “I mean… Even you looked at me as if I was some kind of lowlife when we first met. I mean, had I done things differently, been more polite—”

“You’re not a bad guy, Buck,” Steve cuts him off. The new nickname makes Bucky frown, but he doesn’t comment on it as Steve clears his throat to continue, “I know the two of us just met, and I that don’t really know you, but… I mean, you’re not  _ evil. _ ”

“You seemed to think differently when you first saw me,” Bucky points out, and Steve groans as he falls back against the backrest of the couch, face tipped towards the ceiling. 

“I know. I’m sorry, that was such a crappy thing of me to do,” he says. “I swear, it wasn’t meant towards you. It's just that I've had fellas in suits and fancy-ass cars come by before, and they've all been jerks thinking they can play me just because we're out here in the sticks. I mean,” he adds hurriedly, “you're obviously not a jerk, and I don't usually judge people based on looks alone, but I— I was tired, I wasn’t thinking, and I acted like a complete dick.”

“To be fair, I wasn’t doing much better,” Bucky admits. “I mean, I was kind of a jerk to you, and you were just trying to do your job…”

“So we’re both idiots,” Steve concludes. “Doesn’t necessarily mean we have to fight about who’s the biggest one.”

That  _ is  _ a compelling argument, Bucky has to admit. “So, what?” he asks, smiling. “You’re saying you wanna make peace?”

“Aren’t we doing that already?”

His reply make Bucky smile, and Bucky holds out his beer can and snorts out a laugh as Steve raises his own can in a silent toast. While they drink, Buddy comes pawing back into the living room and makes himself comfortable in the dog bed placed in the corner with a contented sigh. 

“How’s your face coming along?” Steve asks, putting his beer down.

“Slowly,” Bucky admits. “I mean, it'll bruise, sure, but it's not like I haven't been clocked in the face before.”

“Really?” Steve asks curiously. “Didn't exactly take you for a trouble-maker?”

“I'm not,” Bucky replies simply. “But that doesn't mean trouble doesn't find me. I mean, you saw what happened tonight.”

“Point taken.”

Bucky drinks from his beer again. It’s almost empty now, and he briefly wonders which would make him look worse; opening up and drinking from the can he’s been using for his jaw, or asking Steve to get him a new, cold one.

“So,” he asks instead, “when does the store open tomorrow? You know, for the cable?”

“Around noon,” Steve answers. “The guy who runs the place is a bit eccentric about his hours. He tends to sleep in on weekends, but he’s got good prices. Quality stuff, and his dad was a good friend of my dad's when they were kids, so I always get a discount when he can give me one.” He laughs, shaking his head. “He pretends to do it out of convenience for himself, and I pretend not to realize it's not. It’s a silent agreement.”

“Maybe he's just flirting with you?” Bucky jokes, and Steve immediately lets out a barking laugh.

“Who, Tony?” he asks in amused disbelief. “He's already married. And to one looker of a lady, too.”

“So, not your type then?” Bucky asks before he can stop himself, and Steve smirks, bringing his beer back up to his mouth.

“Nope,” he says, looking Bucky dead in the eye. “Not my type.”

Bucky manages to hold the gaze, but oh, it’s hard. It’s so hard, he has to distract himself by reaching for and emptying the last of his own beer. He knows that Steve’s watching him, and that knowledge is more than enough to send his pulse racing. It’s not the first time Bucky’s gone out and ended up following another person home, and he’d like to think that he’s got enough experience to read the signs Steve’s sending him with that look. That doesn’t mean the look doesn’t make him nervous as all hell, though.

He doesn’t put the can down when it’s empty like Steve does with his, fearing that he might end up fidgeting without something to keep his hands distracted. The strategic part of his brain keeps telling him that now would be a really good opportunity to make a move if he wants this to lead to anything, but sadly, the part in charge of speech seems to have gone on vacation once again. He can’t come up with anything to say, and suddenly he wishes there had been some kind of music playing, or a show running on the T.V. for him to default to.

He hesitates, and then he clears his throat and gives Steve’s knee a light nudge with his own. “You know, you should come to New York sometime,” Bucky suggests. “We have a few good bars where I'm sure a guy like you could find yourself some suitable company.”

“A guy like me?” Steve asks. For a moment Bucky thinks he’s screwed up, but when he turns his head, Steve’s still looking at him, his lips quirked upwards and his eyes gleaming.

“Yeah,” Bucky says in a surge of boldness. “You know; like us.”

Steve’s lips twitch, and then he lets out a doubtful hiss, squinting slightly. “Not sure New York’s my thing,” he objects. “I mean, all those fancy clothes and the snobbish people. It’s so… flamboyant.”

“Not everyone's like that,” Bucky argues. “That's just a facade. A show. I mean, people struggle with their identities in the city too, maybe even more than out here. Most are just trying to find themselves, you know.”

“People like you?” Steve counters. It takes Bucky aback slightly, and he finds himself stumbling close to voice an objection when he realizes that Steve’s partially right. Not completely, because Bucky’s known for quite some time exactly who he is, but when it comes to being perfectly open and sincere about it to other people, that’s still a work in progress.  

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Maybe.”

“Well, then,” Steve says, turning to face Bucky more fully by bringing one knee up on the couch and throwing his arm over the top of the backrest. “Riddle me this, pretty boy: why should I go looking for company all the way down in the Big Apple, when I've got quite a catch sitting right here in my living room?”

Bucky’s fingers twitch around the can in his grip. He doesn’t move, but he does shift his gaze to search Steve’s face for any sign of mockery, just in case. Steve doesn’t look away, and even though his posture is relaxed, and even though there’s still a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, there’s a sharp laser-like focus to the way his eyes meet Bucky’s gaze from across the seat.

It’s not a joke, and Bucky’s heart promptly appears to have issues deciding whether it should start beating faster, or just stop altogether.

“Or maybe I’m not your type?” Steve prompts calmly while tilting his head slightly to the side. 

It’s true. At first glance, Steve had been everything Bucky wouldn’t ever think about looking for in a guy; a mechanic, a country-boy who's rough around the edges, and with an attitude to match… He’s taller than Bucky too, which normally Bucky’s not big on at all. His physique – the broad shoulders, the bulk of muscles – is nice, but Bucky has a tendency to look for more slender guys. With dark hair, clean-shaven with perhaps a hint of stubble. An actual beard is a definite no-no. Normally.

Slowly, Bucky turns away. Leaning forward, he sets his can down on the coffee table, and the hollow clunk it makes seems to echo through the silent living room as Bucky then straightens back up.

“No,” he admits. “No, not really.”

He sees Steve’s smile falter; just a twitch down before the corners of his lips regain their former position. Bucky nods to himself and gnaws at his lip. Then he braces his knee against the couch as he lunges forward to half-grab, half-cup Steve’s jaw with both hands, and kiss him, hard. He doesn’t miss the surprised noise that Steve makes when their lips collide, and it only takes a second before Steve’s hands come up to clutch around the curve of Bucky’s shoulders with a moan.

It’s a yes – an _oh,_ _hell yes_ , even – and Bucky wastes no time climbing onto Steve’s lap to push him against the back of the couch with another groan; barely pulling away long enough to breathe, even less stop kissing. Steve’s palms, large and warm, fit themselves against Bucky’s waist, and Bucky moans as he feels Steve ruck up the shirt at the small of his back to get his hands on bare skin. Bucky is still wearing his suit jacket. Steve’s gonna get it rumpled. Not that Bucky cares. Right now, Bucky doesn’t give a fuck.

Steve’s breath is hot against his lips, and as Bucky cards his fingers through Steve’s hair to scrape nails against his scalp, the growl Steve gives in return makes Bucky’s own breath stall. The couch creaks beneath their weight, and Bucky barely knows what he wants to do first. He wants to do  _ everything _ , right here, right now, and he wants  _ Steve  _ to do things to  _ him  _ that he’s never considered letting anyone else do to him before.

He gives Steve’s hair a pull, and Steve responds by biting down on Bucky’s lip with a low snarl. Steve’s hands are tugging at Bucky’s suit jacket, and Bucky grunts when a sudden yank forces his arms down and back as Steve unceremoniously wrangles the garment off of him without so much as a warning. Bucky takes his revenge by tugging at the collar to Steve’s t-shirt, and while Steve begins to twist out of the sleeves, Bucky goes to work on pulling up the hem of the white fabric that’s covering Steve’s torso.

A second later, the shirt is sent flying over the armrest of the couch to join the clothes already relocated to the floor, and Steve gasps as Bucky immediately curls himself down to bite at the exposed skin of his collarbone. Next thing, Bucky is the one gasping as Steve grabs him by the front of his light grey dress shirt and  _ tears _ . The buttons of the shirt pop open, all at once, and the top one sails through the air and lands in a corner somewhere with an audible clatter. Then Steve’s lips are on Bucky’s throat, sucking bruises hard enough to be felt to the bone.

Bucky shifts his weight on Steve’s lap, straddling him across the hips rather than sitting on his thighs, and as he rocks his body down, he finds that Steve’s already pressing hard beneath him. Steve moans at the unexpected friction, and his left hand shoots down to clutch around the swell of Bucky’s ass and yank him closer. It’s a rough grip, and the tug feels more like an order than a request. It makes the excited knot untie in the pit of Bucky’ stomach and retie itself all over again. 

Steve’s breathing hard through his mouth, panting between the kisses he’s busy planting on Bucky’s lips. His fingers dig into Bucky’s ass at the same time as he shoves his tongue deeper into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky groans as he does his best to return the favor. He tries to get a rhythm going, but whenever he makes an attempt to pick up the pace, Steve holds him back and forces him to keep the lazy rocking from before.

“Gonna make me jizz in my pants if you keep doing that, pretty boy,” Steve warns through his teeth even as he uses his hand to encourage Bucky to repeat the slow motion again.

“Maybe that's my plan?” Bucky quips, shivering at the sensation the new pet name gives him now as it’s coming from Steve’s mouth rather than some local drunk’s. His reply has Steve chuckling. It’s a low and dirty sound. Bucky finds himself wishing for Steve to say his real name while sounding like that.

“It’s a good plan,” Steve agrees. Then he grins. “But I've got a better one.”

Before he’s even been given a chance to reply, Bucky feels both of Steve’s hands slip down to grab a firm hold around the back of his thighs, a split second before Steve abruptly  _ stands. _ Bucky squawks, loud and mortifyingly high-pitched as he claws at Steve’s shoulders to keep his balance. When Steve laughs at him, the urge Bucky has to give Steve’s ass a kick with his still shoe-clad heel is damn near overwhelming.

However, he doesn’t fancy getting dropped on his own ass, so he settles for simply clinging to Steve’s torso while Steve carries him through the hallway with an ease that’s downright aggravating. He does stop every now and then to trap Bucky against the wall and kiss him senseless for a while, though. Bucky decides that he can live with being carried as long as Steve keeps doing  _ that _ to him.

Eventually, they end up in what Bucky quickly registers to be an office turned-spare-bedroom by the looks of the furniture inside. He assumes that it’s because Steve’s renovating the upstairs, since the bed is clearly too big to be meant for this particular room. That’s about as much time as he gets for contemplating Steve’s interior design, because next thing, Bucky finds himself bouncing on the mattress as Steve resolutely tosses him down on top of it. He tries to sit up, but Steve just as insistently shoves him back down as he climbs on after him. 

Just like that, Bucky becomes incredibly aware that Steve’s currently completely shirtless, hovering over him on all fours with a smile that would have made Bucky go weak in the knees, had he not already been lying down. It’s like being stared down by a wolf, and Bucky swallows down a whine as Steve slowly reaches out to run his hand up the center of Bucky’s chest.

“So,” Steve says with a breathy rasp. “You wanna show me how you fellas do things over in the big city?”

Bucky looks down at the hand on his chest, takes in the size of it, and clears his throat.

“I was thinking… I’d rather have you show me how you do things out here in the sticks.”

Steve grins, the faint gleam of his teeth wolfish in the dim as he lets out a throaty, “I can do that.”

Pulling away to sit back on his heels, Steve rests his hands on his knees while looking Bucky in the eye as he nods towards his body. “Strip,” he orders flatly. For a moment, Bucky contemplates defying him, but the need to get this show on the road is far more pressing. So without a word, Bucky sits up to untie his shoes and pull his socks off. He shrugs his ruined dress-shirt off his shoulders, feeling Steve’s gaze linger on his every move, before lying back down to wiggle out of his suit pants as graciously as he can manage.

As he does, he sees Steve work his own boots open and off, and then how he slowly unzips his jeans to rub himself through his underwear; his hand cupping around the bulge through the soft cotton. He's wearing boxer briefs from the look of it, and Bucky swallows tightly at the sight.

“You look hungry,” Steve comments lewdly. “Perhaps I should’ve given you something to eat rather than drink?”

Bucky huffs, but sees the challenge for what it is. Holding Steve’s gaze, he takes his shorts off, determined not to get intimidated by Steve’s – from what he can see – rather impressive size.

He knows he’s not small by any means, but that doesn’t mean he can’t get self-conscious; especially when he’s in the same bed with someone who’s apparently hung like a goddamn racehorse. He manages to keep a straight face, however, even as Steve slowly looks him over, gaze leisurely dragging all the way from his toes to his face. 

Then Steve smirks.

“Nice,” he purrs as he leans forward to slowly climb on top of Bucky once again. “Looks like you've got more going for you than just your face.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies cockily, even as he fights to keep the blood from rushing to his cheeks. “I’ve got a pretty thick wallet too.”

Steve laughs at the joke while reaching over Bucky’s head. He fumbles around a little with the bedside table before returning with a bottle of lube and a row of condoms. He holds the items up for Bucky to see, and gives the condoms a little jiggle.

“Still wanna know how we do things out here in the sticks?”

“You still wanna show me?” Bucky retorts. Steve smiles as he tosses the supplies towards the bottom of the bed, before lowering himself down to fold his lips over Bucky’s with a low hum. Bucky gasps when he feels the cool of Steve’s zipper drag against the inside of his thigh, but then the hard bulge that presses in against the dip between his hip and pelvis has his mind distracted long enough to forget about the discomfort.

Steve kisses him with firm determination, and Bucky finds it easy to allow Steve to push him further into the pillow, to pin his arms by his sides and simply let himself be dominated for a little while. It’s a freeing sensation, to let go, to hand over control, and as Steve begins to move his lips down to kiss and nip at his throat, Bucky gives a long exhale and tips his head back to allow Steve further access. 

Bucky moans as Steve mouths an unhurried trail down his neck towards his shoulder, and from there to his clavicle where Steve gives the bone a shallow bite with his teeth – payback for Bucky’s similar bite out on the couch. Bucky hisses, and then lets out a chuckle as Steve dips further down to tongue at his left nipple. The laugh quickly morphs into something lower and far more breathless as Steve worries the nub with his teeth, biting and licking at the flushed skin until Bucky’s squirming from it.  

Steve’s still got Bucky’s arms pinned to the mattress, and Bucky curls his hands into fists against the covers and arches his back when Steve switches to give the other side of his chest the same attention. Still, even with the position their in, it’s not the same as it had been out on the couch. This is gentler, less hurried, and it doesn’t take long before Bucky can feel the head of his cock leave wet smears on his skin with every action of Steve’s mouth.   

“Fuck…” he hisses under his breath.

“Getting impatient?” Steve asks, only pausing long enough to speak before returning to circle the nipple with his tongue. 

“More like bored,” Bucky lies, grunting slightly. “You’re too slow.”

“I think I’m doing just fine,” Steve replies, and Bucky gasps when Steve’s teeth return to tug hard at his nipple. “Easy does it, and all that.”

“Would you stop being such a smartass and get on with it already?” 

Again, Bucky gasps as Steve finally abandons his chest with a final, lazy pull of teeth that quickly relocates to the curve of Bucky’s ribs to scrape down his abdomen. Once there, Steve pushes himself up on all fours to sit back in the gap of Bucky’s now-spread legs. Bucky groans impatiently as Steve deliberately avoids any form of contact with his cock, instead putting both his hands on either side of Bucky’s hips. 

Bucky looks down at him, and Steve tilts his head to the side while moving his thumbs in light, teasing circles over the edge of Bucky’s hip bones. He doesn’t say anything, and the swipe of his fingers doesn’t let up either. Bucky follows the movement of them with his gaze, but when nothing happens, when Steve doesn’t  _ move, _ Bucky begins to suspect what it is that’s going on. 

He wiggles his hips, signaling Steve to get on with it, but Steve doesn’t budge. Those hands – those warm, large hands – keep him trapped against the mattress, and when Bucky makes a low noise of annoyance, Steve actually has the audacity to grin.

“Oh, c’mon,” Bucky grunts impatiently, and Steve cants his head down with an amused quirk of his eyebrow.

“Say please,” he coaxes. The bastard.

“Fuck you.”

“My, you’ve got a mouth on you,” Steve says, not without sounding slightly impressed. “You talk that way in court, Mr. Lawyer?” He inches his hands further down – just an  _ inch _ – before adding, “Perhaps we should find a way to shut you up.”

“Perhaps we should,” Bucky shoots back, knowing that by doing so he’s probably digging his own pleasurable grave in this power-battle, but he can’t help himself. Especially not when Steve responds by leaning even further down; those full lips now hovering just above the head of Bucky’s bobbing cock, where he stops to look up at Bucky from beneath full lashes.

“Say please,” he repeats in a hoarse whisper that curls up Bucky’s spine like tendrils of cool smoke. It’s a voice full of promise, yet Bucky finds that he can’t answer it. Not right away. He hesitates, licking his lips as he fists the covers in his hands, swallowing hard.

Steve’s still looking at him, and the corners of his mouth are still curled up in that same mischievous smile as before, clearly enjoying Bucky’s silence. He’s playing a game; a game Bucky normally wouldn’t have found the slightest bit exciting or intriguing. Then again, perhaps that’s only because whenever he’d pictured himself playing such games, he’d always imagined himself where Steve is now. Playing it like this, on the other hand… It’s obviously not the same. Perhaps that’s also why, without really being able to define a reason or motivation behind it, Bucky suddenly hears his own voice grate out a low, almost inaudible, “Please.”

Steve doesn’t reply or even comment on his surrender. He just gives Bucky a final, long look, and then lowers his head, wrappings his lips around the head of Bucky’s cock. The wet slide of Steve’s tongue has Bucky’s breath stuttering, and he can’t help the low whine that escapes him when Steve uses the tip of that tongue to lazily circle his cockhead in slow, continuous swirls.

Steve works steadily, but doesn’t rush. With each completed circle of his tongue, he dips his head further, sliding down another inch of flesh before moving back up. The slick of saliva eases the way for the next plunge, but the pace is so deliberately slow, the movement never feels like a complete stroke. Bucky loves it just as intensely as he hates it.

Steve’s beard drags against the inside of his thigh, but it’s more of a tickle than a burn. It causes Bucky’s skin to prickle. Even though the sensation carries a slight sting, it still feels good, despite it being as slow as everything else.

“You sure you know how to do this?” Bucky grunts out, groaning in frustration when Steve pulls up for the millionth time without actually doing it _ properly. _

“What, you wanna file a complaint?” Steve asks. He’s smiling. Bucky can  _ hear  _ it.

“I will if you don’t start paying attention to what you’re supposed to be doing,” he mutters back. 

“What makes you think I’m not paying attention?” Steve counters, and this time, the sound of his voice has Bucky lifting his head to stare down at him with a rush of chills racing through his limbs. Suddenly, Steve doesn’t sound playful anymore. He doesn’t sound angry, or insulted either, but he does sound… alarmingly curious. 

“Huh?” Bucky croaks.

“What makes you think I haven’t been paying attention?” Steve repeats. He shifts his weight – just slightly – and repositions his left elbow; efficiently trapping Bucky’s thigh beneath the weight of his torso.

“I mean, if I hadn’t been paying attention,” Steve continues, “there’d be no way for me to know that this…” He bends his head, and drags his tongue in a long, hard lick up the bottom of Bucky’s shaft, making Bucky gasp. “… makes you do that. And that this…” Grabbing around the base, Steve gives the head of Bucky’s cock a hard suck that has Bucky arching his back off the mattress with a sharp cry while screwing his eyes shut. “…does that.”

“Well, aren’t you clever,” Bucky grates out, teeth clenched shut just as hard as his eyes.   

“I prefer the term strategic,” Steve counters. “But whatever works for you. Now…” Bucky feels Steve lift himself up and place both his hands on top of Bucky’s hips, fingers spread wide. “How about I show you a few things I already knew from before?”

Bucky doesn’t answer; he doesn’t have the time to. Steve simply takes him into his mouth –  _ all the way _ into his mouth – and sucks. Bobbing his head, he hollows his cheeks and nearly makes Bucky choke on his own breath at the sensation. Bucky gives an instinctive thrust to chase after the heat when Steve pulls back, and Steve immediately grabs around his hip bones and shoves him back down.   

“Oh, no you don’t,” he warns. 

Steve holds him down, sucking him off while Bucky grabs for the pillows, his hair, Steve’s hair,  Steve's shoulders, and running his fingers over every surface he can reach. He can’t stay still, and he needs to touch, to move. It’s a good thing Steve’s as strong as he looks, otherwise Bucky would have been fucking his mouth to pieces right about now.

Bucky flashes his eyes open as the thought sears into his mind, and he moans in spite of himself as he reaches down and grabs around the top of Steve’s head. Steve looks up, a question in his eyes, and Bucky meets it. He swallows, and then makes another tentative attempt to move his hips. As he rocks up for a second time, Steve lets him. 

Bucky watches, mesmerized how his cock slides past the slick shine of Steve’s lips, and his grip on Steve’s hair tightens slightly as he pulls it back out. He does it again, holding Steve’s head still as he picks up the pace, and his soft groan blends with Steve’s as Steve lets him fuck into his mouth. It’s dirty, and Steve looks absolutely lewd where he is, bent forward on his knees with Bucky’s cock between his lips, eyes closed and looking like he’s enjoying himself more than Bucky is. 

As Bucky moans, cock twitching hard, Steve looks up, and Bucky licks his lips, meeting his gaze. Holding it, making sure that Bucky’s really  _ watching, _ Steve begins to rock himself against the surface of the mattress with a rumbling groan, and Bucky can feel heat blaze through his gu at the sight.

“You know…” he pants, “you don’t look all half-bad like this.”

In return, Steve hums, sending vibrations rattling down Bucky’s shaft. Bucky moans aloud this time; he doesn’t even pretend not to enjoy it, and combs his fingers through Steve’s hair in time with the bowing of his head. 

“Oh, fuck yessss…”

Bucky cranes his head back into the pillow with a hiss, twisting it to push his face into the fabric. Steve’s mouth is magic, each lick of his tongue both a curse and a blessing. It’s seriously the best blowjob Bucky’s received in his entire life – maybe because he hadn’t been expecting it – and he’s completely and thoroughly enjoying himself when the sharp sound of  tearing foil reaches his ears.

He jerks his head up just in time to see Steve toss an empty condom packet over the edge of the bed.

“What’re you doin’?” he asks, and Steve responds by demonstratively pulling the condom over the three middle fingers of his right hand. 

“It’s safer this way,” he explains, as if he doesn’t understand at all what Bucky  _ actually  _ asked him about. “As a mechanic my hands are never really clean, you know?”

Bucky snorts out a laugh through his nose, for a moment amused that Steve considers his hands to be the issue when it comes to the cleanliness of the situation. A situation Bucky’s currently feeling both intrigued and slightly terrified about.

“So…”  Bucky starts, clearing the nervous squeak out of his throat when Steve looks at him, “You’ve done this kinda thing before?”

“Done what?” Steve asks. “Had sex, or stuck my fingers up someone’s ass?”

“Both,” Bucky answers sheepishly. “I guess…”

“Well then,” Steve replies while reaching for the lube at the edge of the mattress. “Both. I guess.”

He snaps the cap of the bottle open with his thumb, and Bucky flinches in spite of himself.

“Easy,” Steve soothes. His eyes are sincere, awake as they meet with Bucky’s own, and Bucky forces himself to relax as he watches Steve drizzle liquid onto his condom-covered fingers. As Steve caps the bottle and tosses it aside in favor of spreading Bucky’s legs further apart, he suddenly pauses to look at Bucky again. 

“Have  _ you _ done this before?”

“Of course I have,” Bucky answers. “Just, you know… I’m usually where you… are.”

“Really?” Steve asks with an amusement in his eyes that has Bucky rolling his own to the ceiling.

“Yes,  _ really, _ ” he admits. “Now, are we doing this or are you gonna sit down there looking at me all night?”

“You know, someone really ought to teach you some manners…” Steve mutters. Bucky opens his mouth to argue, but at the cool touch of lube on the exposed skin of his taint, he closes it again.

The insertion of the first finger isn’t as bad as Bucky remembers. In fact, apart from the indisputable sensation of something being  _ there _ , it’s not even uncomfortable. Steve’s moving slowly – annoyingly slowly, in fact. By the time he begins to push in a second finger, Bucky’s already pushing back against it. But no matter how he writhes and wriggles, Steve doesn’t let him disrupt the steady pace Steve’s already set.

He opens Bucky up just as slowly as he’s done everything else, working his fingers in and out steadily, tenderly, until Bucky can’t do anything but lie there and force himself to breathe through the rush those fingers coax out of him. God, those fingers… Dear, sweet, lord in heaven, those _ fingers…! _

Bucky’s experienced fingers inside his body before, but they've usually been his own. But right now, he’s making noises he hasn't made in years, and he can't hold them back, can’t help but make them. Steve's not even touching his prostate yet, and Bucky honestly can’t tell if that's a good thing. He wants the touch, because he can already tell that it’s going to be amazing, but he's scared this whole thing will end all too soon should he actually get it.

When two fingers become three, Bucky’s all but ready to sob. He grits his teeth and bears it, loses himself in the steady scissoring movements Steve’s using to stretch him, until his mind is spinning and the buzz of white noise is filling up his head.

“Is that enough?” he hears Steve ask from somewhere far away, and he nods feverently.

“Yeah,” he grates. “Yeah, I’m good, I’m good.”

But Steve doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps scissoring until Bucky's struggling not to simply hump down over his fingers in mindless desperation. 

“Please,” he whimpers. “Please, enough… Steve….”

He actually whines when Steve pulls his fingers out, and he slumps down, panting hard. He watches with half-lidded eyes as Steve pulls the used condom off his hand and tosses it onto the floor, before rising from the bed and quickly stripping out of his remaining clothes. 

Bucky watches him drop his jeans, and how Steve steps out of them before easing the elastic of his boxer briefs over the curve of his buttocks. It’s a nice ass, Bucky decides. Had he not been so goddamned horny already, he would probably have suggested they switch it up. An ass like that was meant to be fucked; plain and simple.

That’s what he’s thinking, up to the point where Steve turns around to face the bed again, and Bucky gets a clear view of his cock for the first time. 

Oh, sweet Jesus…

The fact that he’s fully aware where that thing is supposed to go makes it even harder to look away, but Bucky quickly swallows down the initial stab of panic the sight of Steve’s cock sets of inside his chest. He’s not about to chicken out on this now. 

So when Steve climbs back onto the bed, Bucky brazenly sits up and nods towards the thick curve of Steve's erection, hand already extended to touch.

“Can I?” He's not really sure why he asks permission, but there's something in the air that makes asking feel… appropriate.

Steve looks down at him from where he's kneeling on the mattress, and nods his okay. Bucky gently curls his fingers around his shaft and gives the length a tender stroke as he grips it. Steve gives a drawn-out sigh, watching Bucky's hand move. He doesn’t say anything, he just watches from beneath heavy eyelids as Bucky slowly jerks him off. 

His silence sets off a spark of competition inside Bucky’s chest, and growing bolder, Bucky quickly moves to grab around the thick muscle of Steve's thigh for support as he leans in to place his lips on the smooth plane of Steve's stomach. Even here, Steve’s warm, and as Bucky experimentally licks his way up Steve’s abdomen towards his chest, he can feel Steve’s abs twitch beneath the slide of his tongue.

But Steve doesn’t moan. His breath barely hitches. However, as Bucky gives Steve’s pectoral muscle a hard bite, Steve lets out a low growl. Reaching down, Steve takes a grip of the hair at the back of Bucky’s head, and uses it to push him down onto the mattress again.

“Gettin’ cocky there, Buck?” He lets go of Bucky’s hair in favor of reaching behind himself to snatch up the previously discarded row of condoms. Methodically, he tears one off and open, before using one hand to grab around the base of his cock while rolling the condom on with the other. 

“You say that as if you don’t like it,” Bucky quips, gaze stuck on Steve's hands, and Steve chuckles while popping the lid of the lube to slicken himself up. Once he's done, he knee-walks himself into position, and pulls Bucky in with a firm grip by the thigh.

“Ready?” he asks. Once again, Bucky is struck by the contradiction of firm fingers wrapped around his leg, and the gentle question Steve asks. It makes Bucky flush warm, embarrassed not only because of Steve's concern for him, but that Bucky finds that he actually  _ enjoys  _ it.

“Are you gonna keep asking me dumb questions, or are you gonna fuck me?” he mutters back, but Steve doesn't so much as frown. Instead, his eyes grow soft like he can see right through Bucky’s rude facade. Then he starts to move.

As Bucky feels the initial push of Steve's cock against his rim, three thoughts crash through his head all at once. The first is that he can't believe he's letting someone do this to him. The second is that he's immensely grateful that Steve took his time opening him up that little extra., The third thought is that Bucky’s going to pass out long before Steve's even gotten halfway inside.

The tension is unfathomable. It doesn’t resemble fingers at all, and there's a foreboding sensation of exposure that strangely enough had not been there before. Bucky gasps for air as his entire body gives a violent twitch to escape, but instantly, Steve's grip on him tightens, keeping him in position. 

Dear god, Bucky can't breathe, can’t talk. His mind begins to spin as Steve slides home, and he fists the sheets so hard, he’s scared he might tear them. 

“Are you alright?”

Bucky manages a nod at Steve's question while simultaneously gritting his teeth at the concern in his voice.

“Don't worry,” Steve continues. “It'll get easier soon. I'll go slow, I promise.”

When Bucky doesn't answer, Steve gently runs his hand down the length of his thigh to grip around his hip. His thumb draws a soothing circle over the skin there while Steve uses the hand he'd previously been holding Bucky down with to stroke long lines up and down his chest.

It takes a little while, but it actually helps. Slowly, the tension in Buckys chest eases up, and he drags a shuddering breath into his lungs. As he lets it out, he hears Steve murmur a tender, “That's it. Just like that,” while rubbing his open palm over Bucky’s abdomen. 

Bucky's so focused on the movement of Steve's touch, that he doesn't realize that Steve's begun to move before the first actual thrust has him groaning. There's no pain, only a slight discomfort that comes from Bucky’s body still being tense, and it's more than enough to make Bucky want more of it. He knows how this is supposed to feel, how he himself has made others feel in the past. He knows that once Steve gets moving properly, the discomfort will become nothing but a hazy memory, and fuck, he needs Steve to move right  _ now. _

“C’mon,” he growls. “Whatcha waiting for?”

“Not yet,” Steve objects. His voice sounds tight, but as Bucky lifts his head to get a better look at his facial expression, another jut of Steve’s pelvis has him slamming it back down just as quickly. 

“You scared or something?” Bucky throws back. “I'm not gonna fucking break.”

“You might if we do this too fast,” Steve argues. “At the very least, you’ll be sore in the morning.”

“Don't tell me what I can or cannot handle,” Bucky scoffs, even as he tries to stifle a grimace. God, he needs to shut up. Why can’t he just _ shut up? _

“So bossy,” Steve mutters. He shifts his weight, rocking his hips forward, and Bucky bites back a gasp. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

Bucky wishes he had a witty reply to that, he really does, but the moment Steve starts to move, all of his verbal skills abruptly malfunction. He manages to perform some sort of strangled, half-choked garble of surprise as Steve pushes in, and somehow his hands relocate themselves from the sheets to Steve’s wrists to grab and hold on tight without him even meaning them to. Steve pulls out, only to thrust back inside immediately after, and Bucky experiences the baffling contradiction of wanting to beg for him to stop, and to do it again.

“Fuck,” he manages. “Fuck, oh,  _ fuck. _ ”

“That’s the idea, yeah,” Steve replies, right before slamming back in, and Bucky can’t tell if the noise he makes is a cry of pleasure, or one of distress, because that should have  _ hurt. _ Only, it hadn’t. It  _ doesn’t _ , and by the next thrust, Bucky’s slowly coming to the realization that it  _ won’t. _

Of course, he knows that it shouldn’t hurt for most people when done properly, but knowing something for yourself and trusting someone else to know it are two entirely different things. It had, after all, been a very long time since he’d done this this way. Steve, however, seems to be more than well aware of how it’s supposed to go, and that’s why on Steve’s next thrust, Bucky rocks his own hips down to meet it. And oh, fuck, that’s when it happens. That’s the change, the shift in angle, the thick slide of muscle against nerves that sends Bucky’s brain sparkling with light, and his breath choking on the pleasure that follows in its wake. 

He moans, loudly, with his head thrown back into the pillow and his fingers digging into the skin of Steve’s wrists, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He can only hold on, moaning as he twists and writhes as much as his limited range of motion will allow him to in order to process the different sensations coursing through him.

Meanwhile, Steve just keeps going, steady, like clockwork. He’s quiet, Bucky can’t help but notice; strong and silent apart from a few groans and grunts. His silence has Bucky feeling disturbingly aware of how loud he himself is being, moaning and whining with each push and pull, and Bucky needs Steve to  _ moan, _ goddammit!

“That’s all you got?” he asks, panting and gasping more than he speaks. This time, Steve doesn’t answer him. Instead, he simply gives him a long, steady look, before grasping around the back of his thighs and pushing forward. Bucky yelps as he gets his legs unrelentingly folded over himself; first because he’s not expecting it, and second because Steve doesn’t stop thrusting as he does it. He doesn’t look away either. He holds Bucky’s gaze through the entire process, staring him down with a focus that makes the skin at the back of Bucky’s neck prickle, and Jesus, oh,  _ Christ _ , oh, this new angle is going to make him lose his fucking  _ mind. _

“Yeah,” he whispers eagerly as Steve towers over him. “Yeah, c’mon, fuck me like you mean it, c’mon.”

With another grunt, Steve tightens his grip around the back of Bucky’s knees, and Bucky moans, eyes rolling back when the shove against his prostate comes. It’s harder, rougher, and Bucky wants more, wants Steve to fuck him, oh, dear sweet lord in heaven, he wants Steve to _ break _ him.

“Fuck me,” he gasps, his voice turning raw with every syllable. “Oh, yeah, fuck me, Stevie, oh, god, yes…!”

Steve groans, and his upper lip pulls up just slightly to reveal the white of teeth. Bucky feels his stomach flip. 

“Bite me,” he says, before he can pause and reflect on whether or not he even should ask for such a thing. “Want you to mark me up. I need you to bruise me, Steve, need to feel you everywhere.”

“Oh, you little…” Steve doesn’t even seem capable of finishing his sentence properly. It ends in a growl that send ripples of goosebumps over Bucky’s skin, and then Steve’s teeth are on the side of Bucky’s throat. Bucky feels his toes curl as Steve bites down, and he’s pretty sure his cock just dribbled out a thick splotch of precome onto his stomach. It has him acutely aware that there has been no actual contact to that part of him in a very long time, and he lets go of Steve’s wrist to worm his own hand between the tight squeeze of their bodies to rectify that. 

He doesn’t get far.

Steve catches him, and yanks his hand back out by the wrist and shoves it against the mattress next to Bucky’s head with a warning growl.

“You wanna get fucked?” he hisses. “Then you better come while being fucked too. You can save your hand for when you’re alone.”

“So you’re actually planning on fucking me tonight?” Bucky quips, his mouth a loose canon yet again. He hopes that Steve will realize the retort for what it is; teasing, not criticism, and he’s relieved when Steve’s reply is a smirk. That wonderful, mischievous smirk which so far has only meant good and pleasurable things.

“You keep begging me to, and I just might,” he promises cryptically. “I like your voice, you know. I can’t wait to hear it scream my name.”

It’s a terrifying threat, and a blissful promise, and Bucky ardently accepts them both as Steve braces his hands against the mattress on either side of Bucky’s torso, with Bucky’s legs still hooked around and held up by Steve’s elbows. As Steve looks down, meeting Bucky’s gaze for the okay Bucky knows he wants, even though it’s been given repeatedly, Bucky can’t help the sly grin that creeps across his lips.

“Well,” he breathes, “guess you better put your back into it, then.”

And boy, does Steve ever.

Just like that, Bucky finds that the simple task of pulling air into his lungs becomes a challenge. Everytime he tries to drag in a breath, it comes rushing back out again in the form of moans, gasps, cries, or mindless whining. His nerves are lighting up, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s blabbering out incoherent sentences between whatever other noises that are falling from his lips. Words like, “Please, don’t stop!”, “Harder,” and, “Yes, oh, yes…!” mix with the frantic pace of his breathing as Steve takes him apart, one hard thrust at a time.

Using his hands, Bucky reaches up and tugs at Steve’s head, cupping his face as Steve obediently bends down to kiss him. Bucky moans into his mouth, rolling his hips and feeling his entire insides tie themselves into an ecstatic knots when Steve moans back.

“God, you feel so good,” Bucky breathes, his lips sliding against Steve’s own as he speaks. “Wanna feel you so deep. Wanna feel your cock come inside me…” He nips at Steve’s lower lip, tugging at it with his teeth, and Steve responds with a groan as he kisses him back, hard enough to keep Bucky from talking any further.

“You really never shut up, do you?” he asks as he pulls away for air, and Bucky shakes his head, his mind dazed and foggy from the building pleasure.

“Only when I come,” he confesses, and for some reason, that has Steve burying his face against the crook of Bucky’s neck with a gasp, followed by a groan that rattles Bucky to the core.

“Yeah, you want that, don’t you?” Bucky urges, taking a wild guess what it is that has Steve suddenly so vocal. “You want me to come while you’re still inside me. Wanna feel me tighten around you while my cock twitches and shoots my load over us both.” 

A nod and a low whine that morphs into a growl at the end of Bucky’s sentence is the response Steve gives him. It’s more than enough.

“I want that too,” Bucky whispers. “I want it so bad, you don’t even know.” He rakes his nails down Steve’s neck, over his chest and back up again. “Fuck me, Stevie. Make me come.”

Again, Steve nods, and Bucky moans out loud as he sags against the mattress and lets Steve have his way with him. Steve’s hips pump hard enough to smack against the back of his thighs, over and over, never stopping, never faltering. 

“Yeah,” Bucky urges breathlessly, “Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, oh, god, don’t stop. Don’t you  _ dare  _ stop, Jesus  _ fuck— _ ”

He’s cut off when Steve suddenly lifts his head from Bucky’s shoulder and kisses him, just as hard as he had before, but more desperately, more needy. The difference is tangible, like a spice left on Bucky’s tongue when Steve pulls away; a taste that immediately coaxes forth another, metallic zing of lightning in the back of his throat.

“You’re gonna make me come,” Bucky warns between frantic gasps. Steve nods, just as frantic, moaning open-mouthed against Bucky’s lips.

“Say my name,” Bucky orders.

“Bucky,” Steve grunts, but Bucky shakes his head, feeling the sparks ignite in his stomach. 

“My real name,” he blurts. He tightens his grip around the back of Steve’s neck, feeling the curls of Steve’s hair brush between his fingers. “Say my real name,” he begs, seeking out Steve’s gaze in the dusk. He’s so close, he’s so goddamn close, but he wants to hear it. He  _ needs _ to hear it. “Please, say it,” he whines. “Oh, god, say it. Say it, Stevie…!

Steve’s eyes are hazy, his eyelids fighting not to close completely, and Bucky can see the faint movement of his lips as they shape the syllables around a final whisper, soft and tender:

“James…”

Bucky comes; mouth open, voice silent as the climax washes over him. He feels Steve give another few shoves of his hips – erratic, uncontrolled spasms – and then Steve presses his forehead down against Bucky’s own and moans as he spills inside of him, hips tight against Bucky’s backside.

He’s gorgeous. Wild and ferocious, and yet the lips brushing against Bucky’s cheek are tender. Soft like nothing Bucky’s ever felt. 

It’s one of the best orgasms Bucky’s experienced in his entire life, and by the time Steve eventually pulls out and rolls onto his back next to him, Bucky’s head is still spinning too wildly for him to securely fasten his gaze on anything.

“Jesus,” is all he manages, and he hears Steve grunt out an affirmative, followed by the low snap of latex as Steve pulls the condom off and ties it into a knot. He feels the dip in the mattress as Steve then rolls further onto the edge of the bed, and he hears the rustle of something on the floor before Steve comes rolling onto his back once more.

Then, his eyes fly open as he feels something wet on his stomach, and he looks down, realizing that Steve’s cleaning him off with some kind of wet wipe.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” Steve explains as he continues to mop up the mess covering Bucky’s skin, and Bucky sags back down, letting him. It feels nice, being pampered. More than nice, actually, and Bucky nearly finds himself dozing off where he lies, with the slow strokes of the paper towel moving over his chest and abdomen.

“Hey.” Bucky gets a nudge in his ribs, and he peeks his eye open to look up at Steve, who gives him a berating look. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bucky argues, stifling a yawn the moment he says it.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Steve says, snorting in amusement as he tosses the dirty wipes over the edge of the bed where Bucky suspects the discarded, tied-off condom is already resting within a wad of Kleenex.

Bucky waits while Steve cleans himself off as well. He doesn't want to do the whole, “So are you kicking me out now?” conversation while Steve's too busy to even look at him; he prefers to get shown the door with some genuine eye contact, thank you very much.

That's why, once Steve's done, Bucky is genuinely surprised when Steve crawls beneath the covers, tugs them up over them both, wraps his arm around Bucky's shoulders, and pulls him in close.

For a moment, Bucky just lies there, blinking. His head is semi-resting against the dip between Steve's shoulder and chest, his body slightly tense because he's not… quite sure what's going on. Or why.

Normally, Bucky would be halfway dressed by now, but if the tight hold around his body is any indication, Steve's got no intention of letting him leave anytime soon. Bucky guesses it could have been worse. It's not as if staying curled up in a warm bed has ever been an issue for him. And that the way Steve's thumb keeps drawing whimsical patterns over Bucky's left arm is oddly soothing. Just like the warmth of Steve’s body has this pleasant sense of intimacy to it that has Bucky slowly relaxing even further. In fact, the situation as a whole is actually pretty… nice.

He thinks on whether he should ask Steve what his plans are. Then he considers that the alternative to staying where he is, is to get driven back to his hotel, and the more he thinks about it, the more he decides he prefers staying in Steve’s bed.

He looks up at the ceiling. Then he glances at Steve. Who's looking right at him.

“Relax,” Steve tells him softly. “I'm not kicking you out.”

“I wasn't—” Bucky starts, but then he sighs, turning away. “I'm just not used to guys being so… keen on keeping me around afterwards.”

“Well, you  _ are _ a pain in the ass,” Steve admits. “But I happen to enjoy my snuggles, and I’ll pick you over Buddy for that any day.”

“Coming from the man who threatened to shoot a guy over that dog, I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”

“What can I say,” Steve murmurs, snuggling closer. “Your nose ain’t as slimy.”

“Whatever,” Bucky mutters as he finally puts his full weight on Steve's chest with a sigh. “I'll take it.”

“I mean,” Steve says, suddenly sounding less teasing and more concerned, “unless you wanna leave? I'm not gonna keep you here if you don't wanna stay.”

“No, it's fine,” Bucky says quickly. “I'll stay. I don’t have the energy needed to get up right now anyway. And the hotel is already paid for, so it's not like anyone will care.”

“I'll cover the expenses at the hotel for you,” Steve offers, his tone firm. 

“You don't have to do that.”

“I tricked you into going there,” Steve objects. “I mean, if I hadn't been such a dick before—”

Promptly, Bucky reaches up and covers Steve's mouth with his palm, turning both his head and Steve’s so that he can look him in the eye.

“Steve,” he says firmly, “I'm an attorney at one of the most successful law firms in New York City. The company pays for all of my expenses while I'm working, including my gas, my food, and my hotels. There's no  _ need  _ for you to cash out for anything. Besides,” he adds, removing his hand and lying back down, “after this, if you gave me money it would only make me feel like you were paying me for sex.”

“Oh,” Steve says dumbly. “I… I honestly didn't think about it that way.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” Bucky confesses.

“Sorry.”

“Oh, shut up,” Bucky scoffs. “You know, even if people hadn't been gushing about you from the moment I rolled into town, I think I would've figured by now that you're not that kind of guy.”

For a moment, Steve is silent. Then:

“Gushing?” 

Bucky chuckles at the disbelieving tone of Steve’s voice.

“What, you didn’t know?” he asks. “Only reason I came to you in the first place was because you were recommended by like, half the town. And the next town over too, for that matter. Which reminds me,” he adds, suddenly recalling, “Sharon says hi.”

“Sharon?” Steve repeats. “Peggy’s Sharon?”

“Yeah. She told me about you when I went to get help in Fort Herkimer. She also told me to tell you she sent me. Probably thought you’d be more willing to help me out if I did.”

“You never told me that, though,” Steve points out soberly.

“I didn’t, did I?” Bucky admits. “Guess it must’ve slipped my mind. Who knows, had I remembered, the two of us might have gotten off to a better start.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Steve agrees. He takes a deep breath and moves his hand up to pull his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “I’ve gotta remember to thank her later.”

Bucky frowns. “For what?”

“Sending you my way.”

Bucky snorts, and twists his arm out from underneath the covers to give Steve a shallow punch on the shoulder.

“You’re the biggest sap I’ve ever come across, I hope you realize that,” he declares. 

“You say that as if you don’t like it,” Steve counters smugly, echoing Bucky’s own words from before, and no, Bucky is  _ not  _ blushing, absolutely not.

“Shut up,” he grumbles. However, he still allows Steve to pull him into another embrace as Steve arranges them both into a more comfortable position. As Bucky turns to stifle a yawn against Steve’s clavicle, Steve bends his his head down to place a simple kiss at the top of Bucky’s own.

Bucky doesn’t smile.

He absolutely does  _ not. _

 

/\/\/\

 

“There you go,” Steve announces while slamming down the hood of Bucky’s car. “Good as new.”

“That went ridiculously fast,” Bucky comments. “You sure you actually did anything in there?”

Steve smirks, but he doesn’t answer. He just walks up and holds the keys out for Bucky to take, and Bucky accepts them with a nonchalant swipe of his hand.

It’s just past noon. The guy selling the spare part in town – Tony, if Bucky remembers right – had indeed opened up later than any of the others stores around. Not that it mattered; Steve and Bucky had spent the entire morning in bed anyway, and Bucky doesn’t even have to worry about getting himself some food before leaving, because Steve had cooked them both brunch before they went to get the cable for Bucky’s car. They had also stopped by the Travelodge and picked up Bucky’s luggage, which is now safely stored away in the trunk of the car in front of them.

Beside him, Steve gives a long stretch of his back, and Bucky doesn’t even try to hide the way his gaze is immediately pulled towards the faint sliver of skin that appears in the gap between Steve’s jeans and t-shirt. No blue coveralls today. Bucky can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.

“So, I guess you’ll be on your way then?” Steve asks, bringing his arms down to pull a rag out of his back pocket and wipe the dirt off his palms. 

“Guess so,” Bucky says. He doesn’t make any attempt to disguise the resignation in his voice. It’s Sunday. Technically he doesn’t  _ have  _ to leave yet for another few hours, but he knows that there’s no real point in drawing this out. It’s bittersweet. Or just bitter.

“Albany was it?” Steve asks casually.

“Nah, I think I’ll head straight home. I’ve got the time, and with the car fixed I won’t have to worry about being left stranded by the side of the road.”

Steve nods, silently agreeing. “I'll see you around then,” he says. As if Bucky is just heading a town over and they’ll meet again in a few days. 

Bucky opens his mouth, but he can’t bring himself to reply. Any polite clichés he could possibly say would be lies – poor ones, at that – and so he just turns around and opens the car door to slide into the driver’s seat.

“You know,” Steve says with a contemplative look at the sky as he casually folds his arms over the top of the door before Bucky can close it. “Business is pretty slow around here in the Fall. Not as many tourists around like in the summer.”

“Makes sense,” Bucky agrees, even though he knows absolutely nothing about the correlation between tourism and auto repair.  

“Yeah,” Steve says, nodding. He’s wringing his hands, fingers working over each other in a way that makes him look anything but calm. “I mean, I've actually been thinking about taking a vacation. Go someplace new, see the sights, and all that.”

“Got any place in mind?” Bucky asks. His heart is pounding hard, but his voice comes out steady. He barely dares to hope for what Steve might say next; the letdown would be too much to bare for him should he be wrong. So he sits there, keeping his fingers curled around the steering wheel to keep them from fidgeting while Steve grimaces towards the sun, squinting in the light. 

“Not sure,” Steve answers in a drawl. “You wouldn’t happen to know what New York City’s like this time a year, do ya?”

“I hear it's nice,” Bucky replies facetiously. He clears his throat and grabs a little harder around the leather in his grip. “Only problem is finding a good place to stay, I suppose. There are plenty of hotels if you want some suggestions?”

“Yeah, see, I’m not all that big on hotels,” Steve says. “I can’t really relax with that many people around me.”

“Sounds like you’d be better off staying with a friend,” Bucky concludes.

“Yeah, maybe,” Steve agrees. He looks down, meeting Bucky’s gaze; sharp blue depths gleaming in the sun. “You know anyone who’d be willing to help me out with that?”

Bucky pauses. Both for effect and to keep himself from blurting out something absolutely undignified in response before he can stop himself. “I might know a guy,” he says eventually, and his stomach flutters as Steve’s lips immediately curl into a wide, jubilant smile.

“I'll make sure to give him a call, then,” he promises, stepping back from the car.

“I'll pick up,” Bucky replies. Then he shrugs. ”Or leave you to voicemail. Depends on how long you make me wait.”

“You’re a cruel man, Mr. Lawyer,” Steve teases. Then he swiftly leans in through the gap in the door and gives Bucky a kiss on the lips that has Bucky wishing Steve would just climb right into the car with him. In fact, as Steve begins to pull away, Bucky reaches out and fists his hand in the collar of his t-shirt to keep him from leaving, groaning into the kiss and wishing it would last for just a few moments longer.

“So does that mean you finally decided to like me?” Steve asks smugly once Bucky lets him go, and Bucky rolls his eyes, buckling his seat belt.

“The jury’s still out on that one,” he declares flatly. “I’ll let you know once they reach a verdict.”

“Like I said,” Steve repeats, smiling,  _ “cruel.” _

Bucky laughs and closes the door as Steve steps back. He presses the ignition, and the car rumbles to life, dashboard lighting up. For a moment, Bucky wishes the vehicle will sputter and die on him, giving him an excuse to stay, but he knows that he can’t. So instead, he puts the car into reverse and backs in a wide circle around the spot where Steve is still standing, until the car is facing the road. 

As he puts the car into drive, Bucky looks up and manages a final smile and a wave, which Steve returns. It’s about as much of a goodbye as Bucky can take, and as he heads for the road, he makes sure not to send a single look into the rearview mirror, knowing that he’d only be doing himself an emotional disservice. 

The car runs perfectly, and it doesn’t take long before Bucky pulls back out onto the I-90, heading east as if the past twenty-four hours had never happened. It’s a strange feeling – a surreal sensation housing just as much melancholy as it does giddiness – and Bucky’s not quite sure what to make of it.

He decides to do the only reasonable thing he can think of, and turns on the radio. As the display lights up, Bucky can’t help the dopey grin that spreads across his lips as Lynyrd Skynyrd’s  _ Simple Man _ immediately comes streaming out of the speakers. 

He turns up the volume, and settles deeper into his seat.

Maybe he could get used to a little rock’n’roll after all.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to share your thoughts on the fic in the comments :)  
> You can always find me on [Tumblr](http://chiyume.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/chiyume87), should you want to talk there instead.  
> I'm bad at replying to comments here on ao3, but I do my best to respond to DMs as soon as I get the time. I love talking to people, so please don't hesitate to write me. <3


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